


The Slow and Silent Ways of Fish

by SacrificedCynic



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter: Hogwarts Mystery (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Multi, Mystery, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:27:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 59,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27028084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SacrificedCynic/pseuds/SacrificedCynic
Summary: In a Britain where Hogwarts was never founded, magical students are educated in apprenticeships, known more commonly as Noble Adoptions. At age fifteen, Harry Potter is found on the streets and adopted by the most powerful wizard in England. "I'm going to teach you how to kill me, Harry. Please, you're the only one who can." (xposted on ff.net)
Relationships: Daphne Greengrass/Harry Potter, Fleur Delacour/Harry Potter
Comments: 19
Kudos: 52





	1. Behind the Curtain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harry Potter fanfiction is a free-for-all buffet — there's something for everyone, but everything isn't for everyone. This story, much like buffet-style lasagna, has a very particular flavor (and probably won't sit well if it's the only thing you've eaten today). Therefore, to avoid consuming inedible drivel, I thought I'd let you know what to expect.
> 
> [1] Super-mega-hyper-ultra-lydian AU world. Magic will be identical to canon in practice, but different in philosophy. Put another way: the way wizards use it will be the same, but the way they talk about it will be different.
> 
> [2] No Hogwarts. None. Not even a single Hogsmede. As a result, there will be no hidden train stations. In fact, there will be no trains at all. Even in the muggle world. None. No trains (train lovers, beware).
> 
> [3] No house elves. Seriously. Not even Dobby. Characters will wear socks (rest easy, sock lovers), but none of those socks will make their way into grubby soul-diaries.
> 
> [4] Enough helpings of ice-queen-fire-bird smoothie to give anyone indigestion. HP/DG and HP/FD, but not FD/HP/DG.

**NO LIGHT SHONE BEHIND THE CURTAIN.** Bound in chains and cloaked in darkness, I listened to what lay beyond.

"Lot 324. An Acromantula spiderling aged three months, found in the murky marshlands of Cat Ba National Park — a prime Vietnamese specimen. Shall we start the bidding at 500 galleons?"

As the crowd murmured, a trickle of blood slid down my neck. The metal collar binding me was too tight. Each time I moved, it chafed against my skin.

"Thank you, madam. Do I have 560?"

Another murmur.

"Thank you, sir. Do I have 580?"

Heavy boots on polished linoleum — footsteps approaching. I tensed but didn't turn. They wouldn't risk injury, not when they wished to sell me.

"Lot 325. Going once... going twice... sold to Mister Macmillan! Thank you very much, sir."

The footsteps stopped. I felt a gentle nudge — someone's wand pressed against my spine. Huh, maybe I  _ was _ wrong. My eyes fluttered shut. Oh well.

A calm, soft voice spoke inches from my ear. "Please make room."

It was Mister Snape, the man who'd brought me here.

I bowed my head and tried to honor his request. Difficult, as there wasn't much room to begin with.

"Lot 326. A wand of unknown power  discovered in the previously-thought lost tomb of the wizard Djedi. To verify this creation, Mister Ollivander, if you please?"

The curtain shivered, and a thin spool of light peeked through a crack in its center. Someone stepped up next to me. Our shoulders bumped together, throwing me off balance. I stumbled, trying to remain upright, but my hands were bound together, chained to the collar around my neck. I screwed my eyes shut, bracing for the humiliating pain of falling flat on my face.

A pair of strong arms wrapped around my shoulders. "It seems standing is beyond your mental capacity. Perhaps you require some instruction."

"Sorry," I whispered. "I know. I'll try harder."

Chains rattled as the person next to me was secured to the platform. "A last-minute addition,” said Mister Snape. “I'd introduce you... but it seems like wasted effort." He turned and left. I listened to his footsteps grow fainter and fainter before vanishing entirely.

Beyond the veil, the auction continued. "Lot 327. The teeth of a lycanthropic virgin, harvested under the light of a new moon."

The person next to me —  _ a girl,  _ I realized — spoke. "What's your name?" Her voice was light and dry, like leaves rustling in an autumn breeze.

"He told us not to talk," I whispered. Maintaining silence behind the curtain was of paramount importance — Mister Snape told me so. 

The girl snorted. " _ He _ can lick his flobberworm for all I care. How old are you?"

"Fifteen," I said.

Her voice fluttered. "Fifteen..."

“And you?”

She paused, hesitating for a brief moment.“Eighteen.”

So, she wasn't much older than me — that fit with what Mister Snape had explained about Noble Adoptions. A mercy, a condescension, he'd called it. A way for wizarding families to expand their size and influence by providing an education to the underprivileged.

"Are you a wizard?"

Did you have to know how to perform magic to be considered a wizard, or was simply having magical blood enough? Until four days ago, I hadn't known I possessed either. Regardless, I wasn't about to answer. The auction was much more interesting. They were on Lot 329, now: an abandoned estate somewhere in Bristol.

"So... why are you here?"

I closed my eyes. Was it too much to ask to stand in silence? "Please, leave me alone."

We fell silent. In front of the curtain, the sale of Lot 330 began.

"It's almost my turn," said the girl quietly. "I'm 332."

She was right before me.

"Are you scared?"  I asked.

She considered that for a moment. "No."

"Why?"

"Because I’m only following orders." The girl growled low in her throat.  It was a feral noise, rough and coarse, like gravel scraping together. Her shoulder bumped against my collar.  It dug into my skin, deeper than before.

Hot blood trickled down my neck. "Would you stand still!?" I hissed, struggling to keep my voice down.

"Sorry." The girl said a word in a language I didn't know. "There's just so little room, and my collar is" —  another growl escaped her — "oh, who cares."

I didn't respond. If we were caught (a seeming inevitability at this point), I wouldn't be the one Mister Snape saw talking. The darkness pressed in against me, a suffocating shroud of silence.

"Will you tell me your name, at least?"

There — off in the distance. Soft footsteps. Mister Snape was approaching. "He's coming,” I said.

"Tell me your name, or I swear to Merlin I'll yell right now."

My breath caught. "You're lying."

"Try me. Three seconds. One."

Noble adoptions were voluntary, they had to be for the ritual to work. Whether by desire or necessity, this girl was here of her own free will. There was  _ no way in hell _ she'd jeopardize her standing just to learn a stranger's name. She was bluffing. She had to be.

"Two."

But what if she wasn't? What if she wasn't logical, but bat shit fucking bonkers? Mister Snape was almost upon us now. I could hear his breath, his soft footsteps. What harm could telling her my name do, anyway? Sure, I'd be disobeying Mister Snape's instructions, but I'm certain he'd rather I whisper than allow someone to shout.

"Three."

"Harry!" My voice shot out in a rush, louder than I intended.

Mister Snape’s wand pressed against my neck. "I thought I said no talking, or are you incapable of following simple instructions?"

I blanched. “Sorry,” I whispered.

Chains rattled as the girl was unbound from the platform. Somehow, her lips made their way right to my ear.

"Nice to meet you, Harry," she whispered.

I gaped, flabbergasted, as Mister Snape led her away. It had been years since I last talked to a girl. St. Brutus's didn't allow them on the premises, and before that... well, I wasn't exactly Casanova of the year.

I should have been glad she was gone, glad I was finally left in peace, but all I could feel was yearning — an intense desire to talk with her more, to find out more about her. I watched her outline vanish into the darkness, unable to look away. When she reached it, even the curtain shivered with curiosity.

It was an unsettling feeling . I heard Mister Snape murmur to her in a voice too soft to make out, heard his footsteps coming back towards me, no doubt to depart the same information, heard the mechanical creaking of the curtain as it  opened before her... but all the noise faded  to blissful silence when I finally saw her face.

Long silver hair, deep blue eyes, delicate collar bones. There was too much of her and entirely not enough. Bound wrists fastened to the collar around her neck. Delicate fingers, manicured nails. A dress of lavender and cream that flowed like willow branches in a summer breeze.

She turned her head. Our eyes connected.

A moment, a second, an age, passed between us.

Her pupils expanded, becoming pools of night. The air blistered. A searing pain blazed down my back. I tried to look away, tried to break our connection, but her gaze held me in place. She raised an index finger and placed it against her soft, pink lips. Her throat convulsed, her tongue darted out.

For a moment that felt like an eternity, she sucked the tip of her finger without ever breaking our gaze. When she withdrew that finger, I saw it was coated with a thick, silvery substance that looked like threads of fine silk. She blew on her finger, and that thread erupted into flame. With a careless flick, she sent it sailing towards me, and when it hit, my body erupted in fire.

I cried out audibly, jerking so violently in the chains holding me that I lost my balance and fell to the floor.

The fire burrowed into my flesh, taking root in my spine. It chewed outward, nibbling at every inch of my body until I no longer knew where I ended, and the fire began. I couldn't breathe, I needed oxygen. Darkness closed in on all sides, threatening to swallow me whole. My vision dimmed, and the world became hazy and dark.

I wondered if I was about to die, wondered if this strange girl was about to kill me. Of all the ways it could have ended, being murdered via a-beautiful-girl's-hairball wasn't what I envisioned. Alone in the dark, I curled in on myself, closed my eyes, and waited.

" _ Harry." _

Her voice crashed against my mind like a breaking wave. I heaved a deep breath and opened my eyes. I was still standing on the platform. Mystery girl was still in front of me. Her eyes weren't black anymore, but deep blue and misty with the dew of unshed tears.

She looked away and walked into the light. The curtain closed behind her, and our moment ended.

I stood, stunned.  _ Did I imagine that,  _ I wondered.

Something pressed against my mind — her voice. " _ Harry." _ She laughed a beautiful laugh. _ "Life is full of little ironies, no?" _

A moment later, warmth like I'd never known flooded through me. It was bliss, like sinking into a bath after toiling in deep snow. The wound on my neck closed, the aching of my tired body eased. The pressure, I felt it. I visualized it as one end of an endlessly long rope.

If I followed it, where would it lead?

" _ I don't understand." _

" _ With any luck, you never will."  _ Exquisite sorrow, remorse.  _ "I am sorry." _

" _ Wait,"  _ I started. I wasn't going to let her go, not without an explanation. I visualized the rope in my mind and yanked on it with all my might.

The world around me, the darkness behind the curtain, dissolved. Light swirled around me in a dizzying spiral. I felt fear, confusion, determination, and... something else — something deep and feral. Thoughts danced through my mind in a language I didn't recognize. I heard the crowd, the auctioneer, the frantic beating of my —  _ her — _ heart. And then it was gone. I was back in the darkness. The rope, the warmth, her voice vanished as if they'd never been there to begin with.

Chains clinked. I was unfastened. I stared at my feet as Mister Snape walked me to the curtain. 

A hand on my shoulder got my attention. I looked up as Mister Snape began speaking. "When the bidding begins, stay silent unless you're directly asked a question by the auctioneer. If you  _ must _ answer, supply the fewest words and the least amount of information  possible ." His grip tightened on my shoulder. "I hope you find a suitable family."

"Thank you, sir," I said, and as earnestly as I could, added, "for everything."

Mister Snape turned away without  another word. Before me, the curtain wriggled and a thin sliver of golden light peeked through. I shivered with excitement. If what Mister Snape said was true, if magic really did make the abnormal  _ normal _ , then surely even I could find a place in this new world — a place to belong.

The curtain opened. Golden light flooded in. I took a step forward, then another. With a creak, the curtain shut behind me. Suddenly, everything was different — I was somewhere else. The murmur of the crowd. The smell of dust. The creaking of benches.

"Lot 333. A muggle-raised-magical up for adoption."

A room framed in black marble. Pews rising from floor to ceiling. Torches that burned with strange orange flame. An opaque stage so transparent it seemed I was floating in mid-air. 

"Tell me, child. What's your name?"

The auctioneer was talking to me — a direct question.

I swallowed. In my entire life, I'd never been the center of attention, not like this. "Sorry, sir?"

The auctioneer, a rotund man dressed in a three-piece mauve suit on the right side of the stage, smiled indulgently. "Your name, child. Tell us your surname."

I cleared my throat. "It's Potter, sir. Harry Potter."

The auction house erupted in chaos.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta’d by Jarizok


	2. Choosing Fire

**THE AUCTIONEER WAS A PUDDLE OF SWEAT.** He ran back and forth across the stage, trying to reestablish order. "Ladies and... ladies and... ladies and gentlemen, _please_ contain yourselves!"

It was chaos. Every wizard was arguing with their neighbors, with people across the aisle, with anyone who'd listen.

Unbidden, Severus's words on the roof of St. Brutus's chapel came floating back to me. _Even among our kind, you're... something of an abnormality._ History was repeating itself. Vernon and Petunia, the first family who took me in, always argued about what to do with me. They had used the word "abnormal," too.

An earsplitting bang cut the cacophony in two.

I jumped. _What the—_

"I apologize, I was having trouble hearing you, Horace."

I scanned the pews, now filled with wizards who stood frozen, shocked into silence. There — in the very last row. A raised wand with smoke trailing from the tip. Someone cloaked in shadows. A woman.

The auctioneer coughed. "Um, yes. Thank you, Arabella."

Ruby lips, dark olive skin, razor-sharp smile. "It's mistress, actually." Light and shadow slid across her face in a seductive embrace. "Mistress Zabini."

I gulped. _Holy hell._

The auctioneer made a squeaking sound and dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief. "Yes, of course. Well, now that we're all... settled?"

Robes rustled as the wizards sat back down.

"Just to confirm, you're Harry James Potter, son of Lily and James Potter, The-Boy-Who-Lived?"

I cleared my throat. "Uhm... those were my parents, yes. And, uh, that's... that's what Mister Snape called me, sir."

"But _are_ you?" The auctioneer leaned forward, mustache quivering with anticipation. " _Are_ you The-Boy-Who-Lived?"

There was some significance attached to that title... something of great importance to everyone sitting in the chamber. "I'm, uh, I suppose I'm a boy who's _living_ , sir. So — err — when talking about the past, I suppose I was a boy who lived."

Titters ran through the room. I frowned.

_What's so funny?_

A new voice. "Did the muggles never tell you, boy?" A man in one of the middle rows was standing. He had a fabulous goatee that seemed too magnificent to be real.

I opened my mouth to answer but closed it again. Mister Snape told me I should only answer questions from the auctioneer.

"Are you deaf, boy?"

I looked over at the auctioneer, pleading for some assistance.

A wild shout made me flinch. 

"Boy!"

"Adresco, _honestly_ ," said a woman with mousy hair and glasses too round for her face. "Be _human_. The boy is terrified." She smiled at me. "You'll have to excuse Mister Carrow. He can be a bit hot-headed."

The man, Adresco Carrow, glared. "You forget yourself, Hawthorn."

"Lucius," said Hawthorn mildly. "Please."

A man with long, blonde hair in the center of the front row turned slowly towards them. Self-discipline, confidence, power. It rolled off him in waves. Before he'd even finished turning, Adresco Carrow was back in his seat, angrily stroking his goatee.

Lucius gave him a long look and turned back to face me. His eyes were a shade of hazel so pale they were almost white. "Is there a reason you don't wish to answer, Mister Potter?"

"Mister Snape — err — he said I should only answer questions from..." I pointed at the auctioneer. "I wasn't sure if..." Even as I said it, I felt foolish. These were the wizards who'd be purchasing me. Of course, it wouldn't be against the rules to answer their questions.

_Get it together, Harry._

The corner of Lucius's mouth twitched. "Severus was correct. It _is_ typically customary for the recipient of a noble adoption to remain silent. However, I believe your case is... unique enough that it would be remiss of us not to bend tradition." His eyes flicked to the auctioneer. "Would you agree, Horace?"

The auctioneer made a harrumphing sound that seemed to suggest he had little choice in the matter either way. From within one of the inner pockets of his jacket, he withdrew a wand and with a complicated motion, conjured a chair behind his podium. The moment he sat, the atmosphere in the room changed. Every wizard sat straighter. Their gazes became sharper.

"Perhaps," Lucius continued airily, "it might be useful, and dare I say polite, for us to introduce ourselves when we have a question for Mister Potter. All in favor?" Almost lazily, he raised his hand. No one else did, but he didn't look. "Excellent. I'm sure we'll be able to mediate any... conflicts that might arise. Returning to the matter at hand, I believe the question Mister Carrow was attempting to ask was concerning how, and when, you were made aware of your magical lineage?"

"Pardon, Lucius." The woman, Hawthorn, was smiling. "I don't believe you've given your name."

Lucius communicated more with his eyes than anyone I'd ever met. With the smallest of movements, with the subtlest glances, he was, in his own way, magnificently expressive. When he spoke, ice laced his words. "But of course." He inclined his head towards me. "Lucius Malfoy."

I had a sudden urge to laugh but ruthlessly pushed the impulse down. I needed to focus. "Uh, well, I only found out about magic four days ago."

Angry mutters, wizard shifting in their chairs.

I swallowed. "Um... I don't know much, really. Mister Snape told me I was a wizard and offered — uh — to bring me here."

"He is lying," said a man four rows back with a bald head and deep laugh lines. "He must be."

"Name, Edmund," sang Hawthorn, who seemed to be having entirely too much fun.

The bald man glared at her. "Edmund _Burke_."

"I also," said Lucius softly, "don't believe you asked a question."

"I didn't," agreed Edmund Burke. "I was making a statement. Harry Potter died on the 31st of October, Nineteen — "

A man on the far right side of one of the last rows snorted. "Well, clearly he didn't Burke, if he's standing right in front of us." He waved at me. His face was boyish and open. "Name's Frank Longbottom. I knew your parents. You're the spitting image of James." 

Edmund rose from his chair and spread his arms wide. "And we don't have potions that can alter appearances? Charms? Magic?"

"Our enclave is charmed against such things, Mister Burke," said Lucius smoothly. "If I'm not mistaken, The Wizengamot paid your father handsomely to ward this chamber against such deceptions. Surely you haven't lost faith in his spell work so soon after his passing."

Titters fluttered through the chamber. Frank Longbottom audibly laughed.

Edmund blanched and sank back down. "Of... of course not," he mumbled.

Lucius rose and turned to address the assembled body. "The lineage of Mister Potter is a minor matter to verify, and ultimately inconsequential as an avenue of query. The adoption process is fatal for those with impure intentions. Our forefathers designed it to ensure against such an eventuality. The education of our children is too important, the survival of our families too vital, to leave anything to chance."

Various sounds of agreement.

"The house of Malfoy, for one, accepts that Harry Potter is who he says he is and that he offers no deception in his wish for adoption." Lucius looked over at me with the magnanimous air of someone expecting genuflection and gratitude. "However, I feel the events of his discovery are... circumspect. We know nothing about what Mister Potter was doing before Severus found him. Are we to believe the child who evaded the Dark Lord's clutches for fifteen years was simply... lost? That he grew up, a muggle, for more than a decade with no one any the wiser?"

A man sitting next to Hawthorn raised his hand. He had a grizzled face and seemed to be missing half of his nose. "Pardon, Lucius."

Lucius smiled a tight-lipped smile. "Rabastan Lestrange." His voice was warm. "You have something to ask?"

"A small question." Rabastan's eyes were big, bloodshot, guileless, and wide. "A bit slow on the uptake, I am. Wond'rin' if you could explain your thoughts on what happened."

Frank Longbottom snorted. "Oh, _please_."

"Dear friend, nothing would please me more." Lucius seemed delighted. "I am merely concerned for Mister Potter's wellbeing. We know not what occurred that Halloween night when Mister Potter disappeared. Surely we can all agree that the people who kidnapped him, who _deprived_ him of a childhood immersed in magic, were only interested in _hurting_ him. Now that Mister Potter's back, we can turn to our most qualified to — "

"We know what happened the night Mister Potter's parents were killed."

"Billius," chimed Hawthorn. "You're being _rude_."

A frail man with wispy tufts of red hair rose from a chair in the back row. "Billius Weasley." He turned back to Lucius. "We know who killed Lily and James Potter."

"Too right," agreed Frank Longbottom.

"The death of Lily and James Potter was a tragic accident," said Lucius. "An accident of spell creation gone awry. We know this. Were it not for the Dark Lord's timely intervention — "

A voice spoke from the far left of the first row. "And you're suggesting we bring him here to ask about it, eh?"

"Your name, sir," trilled Hawthorn.

The man had a stern face and big bushy eyebrows like caterpillars. "Bartemius Crouch." He nodded at me, a quick, jerky motion. "Well, Lucius? You've obviously been driving towards something."

Out of all the people who'd spoken so far, Crouch was the only one who seemed to command Lucius's attention. There was something between them... old history, perhaps. "I am merely suggesting that the easiest way to verify what happened that night is to turn to — "

"The person who stands the most to gain by killing him?"

"The Dark Lord," said Lucius pointedly, "is a patron of magical innovation. If this child survived a magical explosion — "

"Caused by your lord."

"The Dark Lord has a vested interest — "

"In finishing what he started?"

Lucius's voice rose a fraction. "In attempting to uncover the truth surrounding how Harry Potter disappeared. _Had_ he known the child survived, _had_ the child not been stolen, the Dark Lord would have taken him in. Lily and James were trusted colleagues if you forgot, and the Dark Lord would have provided for their child because of this."

A man next to Frank Longbottom stood. He had fierce auburn hair and a thick beard inlaid with small flowers. Scotland lay heavy on his tongue, as he said, "Thomas Abbott. Surely, you're not trying to suggest that we hand the boy over to the Dark Lord?"

Frank Longbottom nodded. "It's madness. He should be with Dumbledore."

"Dumbledore," said Lucius with the exhausted air of someone returning to an argument long settled. "Is a criminal in Britain, and entirely not present at this event. A prerequisite for bidding is attendance, if you forgot, Longbottom."

Bartemius Crouch snorted. "The Dark Lord is also a criminal in Britain."

Lucius's head snapped towards him, a snake rearing to strike. " _Was. Was_ a criminal, Mister Crouch. Despite your best efforts, the Dark Lord was pardoned by this very body — "

"That you control," pointed out Frank Longbottom.

"And thus," continued Lucius, ignoring him, "his record was expunged."

"Because you control the vote," growled Thomas Abbott.

Lucius's words were clipped. "I control no one, Mister Abbott. I merely represent the collective interests of the majority."

Thomas Abbott laughed derisively. "That's rich. _You_ represent no one but the interests of your god."

Lucius's lip curled. "We all represent the interest of gods, Abbott."

Frank Longbottom rose from his chair. "Dumbledore," he began, but at that moment, a high, cold voice filled the room, drowning out whatever he was about to say.

"Your god," said the voice, "is dead."

The twin doors on the far side of the room smashed open, ricocheted against the marble walls, and slammed shut again. A gusty breeze blew through the chamber. The torches sputtered and died, plunging the room into darkness. For an instant, all was silent. Then, all at once, all torches flared to life.

Lucius dropped to his knees, along with most of the chamber. "You honor us with your presence, my lord," he murmured.

Standing half-way up the center aisle was a man shrouded in a cloak of living darkness. A darkness that moved and breathed and churned as he walked forward; a darkness that seemed to feed on the very fabric of the universe; a darkness that made Frank Longbottom sink back into his chair with a gasp and a whimper of fear.

The figure reached out a hand. "Lucius..." — he spread his arms wide, welcoming those who knelt before him — "honored friends..." — his tone thinned as he took in those who still remained standing — "fools. Dumbledore was driven out of the country by mere whispers of my power.”

His voice expanded, filling every nook and cranny of the chamber. “Your god is dead."

Something very strange was happening in my mind. A scene, a memory long forgotten — a scream in the dark, flashes of green light, and cold, cruel laughter.

"Harry Potter," whispered the Dark Lord, "we meet again."

His scarlet eyes blinked, and my scar exploded in pain. I jerked in my bindings, struggling not to fall to my knees. It felt like my head was going to split open.

"Do you know who I am?"

I shuddered, trying to answer, trying to open my eyes, but the pain was too great. I couldn't move.

"You're being impolite, Harry."

I needed to get a hold of myself, needed to regain control. I tried to slow my breathing, tried to center myself in the reality of where I was, tried to do _anything_ that didn't involve shivering in pain like a frightened little ferret. "S-sorry."

"Does it hurt?"

Tears. Traitors, each one of them.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._

The Dark Lord's voice was soft. "It's alright, Harry, you can say it."

"Yes," I gasped. "It hurts."

"You must be very strong to still be standing. A child of prophecy shouldn't suffer this way."

It was an invitation. _Drop to your knees. It's alright. Kiss the ground. The pain will be better. You don't need to keep your head up anymore._

"My lord..."

I knew that voice. Who did it belong to?

 _I'll give you a place to belong._ The Dark Lord was all around me, inside me. _You'll never feel unwanted again. Submit... it's easier than falling asleep... submit._

Would it really be so bad to fall? To submit? Belonging sounded nice. It's what I wanted all along.

Another voice spoke, also behind my eyes. _"Harry."_ The pressure, the rope — mystery girl! Her warmth, her voice — I remembered her.

The Dark Lord, the pain, bore down upon me. _Don't you want this to end, Harry? Don't you want to let me in so I can teach you the wonders of the world? We're not so different, you and I._

Pressure, more consistent now. Tugging on the rope. " _Harry."_

The Dark Lord. _You owe nothing to this world. All you have to do is take one little step, and this will all be over._

" _Harry!"_

_Submit._

" _Harry!"_

_Submit._

" _Harry!"_

The heat and pain grew to blistering proportions. A sob burst past my lips. This couldn't go on — I'd go insane. My head was in pain and on fire, splitting from the outside in and inside out all at the same time. I saw the rope before me, jerking this way and that, trying to pull one direction, then another. One end led to fire, the other to pain.

_Pain, or fire. Pain, or fire._

What would happen if I followed the fire? Where would it lead? Could I trust Mystery Girl? Would she — would the _fire_ — consume me? At least pain was familiar. I knew how to duck under it, how to roll with it, how to let it break me, but not end me.

_Pain, or fire. Pain, or fire._

_Known, or unknown. Known, or unknown._

I knew nothing about the Dark Lord, knew nothing of his interest in me. If this was to be my world, wouldn't it be easier to subjugate myself to him?

Mister Snape had spoken of prodigious wizards and wise alchemists; of magic so powerful it was the will of nature herself; of wonders so spectacular my eyes would water just to behold them. The world he described was a world I wanted to see — _wanted_ to be part of.

_And yet... and yet..._

And yet all I'd seen since entering this world was pain. Pain at the way these wizards snapped and snarled at each other; pain at the way power seemed to be on the forefront of everyone's mind; pain at the way the Dark Lord wanted to possess me, possess everything I ever was or could be; pain except for...

Mystery Girl.

All Mystery Girl wanted was to talk to me. She’d tried so hard to learn about me, to know my name. She healed my neck, she called me Harry in a throaty voice, and she burned me with those strange, black eyes of hers.

_Pain, or fire. Pain, or fire._

_Known, or unknown. Known, or unknown._

" _Harry!" Submit! "Harry!" Submit!_

I screwed up my courage, grabbed the rope, and let go.

For the second time that day, the world spun around me in a dizzying spiral of colors and shapes. I saw the inside of an office with marble walls, plush red carpet, and the statue of an enormous gold rooster with three silver stars embedded in its plumage. 

I saw a man whose face was wrinkled with age; a man with wispy grey hair and keen yellow eyes that seemed to know I was watching. I saw a memo in my hands, a memo with writing both blurry and out of focus. It was just like before except... except...

Except this time, Mystery Girl welcomed me, embraced me, pulled me deeper and deeper into the very center of who she was. Memories flew past in hazy splashes of faded watercolor, impressionistic and too foggy to make out. I saw a night sky painted with oils that shimmered as I zoomed towards it. Each brushstroke, each splash of color, a thought, an impression, a piece of what gave Mystery Girl vibrancy and meaning. 

It was wondrous and intimidating and intimate, and the greatest part of the whole thing was that despite my best efforts, I couldn't understand any of it. A glimpse, a taste, a fleeting touch, that was all. Mystery girl wanted me to go deeper, past memory and conscious thought, to a place deeper than identity. A place that was —

I stopped moving. Water glazed with green surrounded me; deep, dark, and beautiful. A tremor rumbled through the liquid. Ah, the pressure... I had almost forgotten what it felt like. It increased and increased and increased as something... someone... approached.

" _Mystery girl?"_ I asked.

Her voice, her essence, surrounded me in a flurry of bubbles. _"Harry."_ She sounded sad again. _"I'm sorry."_

A deep, rumbling chuckle thudded through the water.

The bubbles flowed around my body protectively. _"Stay very... very still,"_ she whispered. _"And reach out your hand."_

Water rippled beneath my fingertips as something moved. A massive eyeball, twice the size of my entire body, opened. It was reflective, blacker than the depths of undiscovered space.

A deep rumble, a pulse. I held my breath. Another breath, another rumble. A flash of heat, a reminder of fire. The creature, whatever it was, seemed pleased. The eyelid closed. The pressure decreased. I let go of the breath I was holding.

Suddenly, I was back in Mystery Girl's mind, watching her walk down a corridor lined with doors that glowed with gleaming blue light.

I felt myself drift away from Mystery Girl, back to my mind where the pain lay. _"When can I see you again?"_ I asked. I knew… I just knew I had to.

Amusement. Sadness. Longing. " _Perhaps soon. Perhaps never."_

She couldn't push me out, not after what she had shown me. _"I don't understand,"_

Her voice echoed as she asked, _"Does it matter?"_

My eyes snapped open. A breath hissed from between my teeth. I was still standing. The Dark Lord was still in front of me. No time had passed.

"Curious," the Dark Lord whispered. "You truly, _genuinely_ , don't know who I am."

It took me a moment to find my voice, to remember where I was and what I was doing. "No, sir."

The hood moved, tilting slightly. "Do you know what I can do?"

I could hazard a few guesses, but none of them seemed respectful under the circumstances. So, I shook my head. "No, sir."

The Dark Lord's voice dropped to a whisper. "Do you want to?"

The same choice as before. Pain or fire. Come what may, I'd choose the fire, the unknown, every time. "I don't think so, sir."

In a flash, the Dark Lord's hands wrapped around my bindings. My feet left the ground. I choked, dangling in empty air. The collar cut into my neck, ripping through skin like a knife in butter. Blood gushed, trickling down my neck, staining my white shirt red. I kicked my feet, struggling to breathe.

"Is there... anything special about you, anything at all?"

Cold, red eyes. There was nothing left.

Frank Longbottom's voice. "Stop this at once!"

"Please..." I whispered, "let go..."

The Dark Lord didn't move. "I wondered, you see. You're meant to be my equal... the child of prophecy... you're the only one..."

The sounds of a scuffle. Thomas Abbott's voice. "This is against the law! Stop! Unhand me, Rabastan!"

People were saying words in a language I didn't understand. Someone screamed. Mistress Zabini appeared behind The Dark Lord's shoulder. "My lord," her voice was soft, urgent. "We must keep up appearances."

The Dark Lord hesitated — a moment of deliberation. The floor rushed up to meet me. Blood spurted on impact. I choked and coughed, splattering the stage with blood. I couldn't breathe. The Dark Lord loomed tall, casting a long shadow over my fallen form.

"My lord," Arabella's voice was relentless. "His neck, my lord. Quickly."

The Dark Lord waved a lazy hand. My wound closed. I tried to push myself to my knees, but I was too weak. Every muscle in my body was tense, bracing for impact. A pair of hands pulled me up, and I found myself staring into the dark eyes of Arabella Zabini. "Thank you," I mouthed, knowing with certainty that without her intervention, I'd definitely be dead. 

Arabella’s lips slid into a sharp smile. _You owe me_ , the smile said.

I looked around the chamber. It was chaos.

The Dark Lord spoke quietly to Lucius. Thomas Abbott nursed a bloody lip. Next to him, Frank Longbottom twitched in his chair. A man to the left of Bartemius Crouch coughed up blood and wiped his lips with the sleeve of his robes. The auctioneer lay asleep in his chair. Everyone was talking, shouting, cursing, and —

An overwhelming pressure engulfed the room. Ash filled my lungs, and manure lingered on my tongue. The room turned monochrome, flickering at the edges with hazy static. It felt like a titanic body of water pressed down against me, like I was back in Mystery Girl's mind under the watchful gaze of her cycloptic eye.

And then, just as soon as it had arrived, the pressure vanished. 

The Dark Lord raised a lazy hand. "I think I'd like to participate in the auction if no one has an objection?"

But apparently, someone did.

For the second time that day, the doors on the far side of the chamber slammed open. 

My mouth fell open. In walked a woman who... she... she'd been frankensteined together.

Half of her face was male, with angled, haughty features while the other was female, older than the male, with rosy lips, round cheekbones, and kind eyes that gleamed with mischief. Rough, careless stitches held her complexion together, almost as if they'd been sewn by someone new to needle and thread.

A sleeveless dress adorned her shoulders, with yellow tights, green socks, and flashing blue sneakers that clashed so magnificently with the rest of her outfit, it looked too garish to be allowed. 

The Dark Lord's voice came out in an angry hiss. "Thorne."

Light flashed. A thin hiss cut through the chamber. The Dark Lord's robe dissolved, transfigured into a colony of ants that fell to the floor and scurried away.

I gasped.

Beneath the Dark Lord's cloak was a swirling mass of dark smoke manifested in human form. So that's why he didn't fight her, I realized. It isn't that he can't defeat her. It's that he isn't actually here.

"No way," I mumbled.

Thorne put her hands on her hips. "Now, I'm all for smoke and mirrors, but even you aren't above the law. Lucius said it earlier himself." She lowered her voice, and in an unmistakable impression of Lucius, said, "a prerequisite for bidding is attendance if you were confused." She raised her eyebrows. "That was you, ten minutes ago, remember? Anyway.  _ Peskipiksi Pesternomi _ !"

Twin jets of sparking, spitting, blue light flew from Thorne’s fingertips. As they neared the Dark Lord, the jets of light corkscrewed in the air, twisting around each other with such frenetic speed they became little more than a vibrating white blur. When the spell hit, the Dark Lord dissipated into wisps of smoke. Thorne took off her left sneaker and looked inside. "Where is that thing? Honestly."

To my astonishment, she reached her entire arm into her shoe and started rummaging around.

"This is really embarrassing. I wonder where... ah!" Sporting a proud smile, Thorne withdrew a pouch stuffed to the brim with large gold coins. "There it is!"

"What the fuck..." I mumbled. That didn't just happen. How did her foot not fall right in?

Thorne walked to the center of the stage, swinging her pouch like a baton. "So... I'm willing to place a starting bid of... uh, let's say… a million galleons for the-boy-who-needs-a-meal over there. Does anyone wanna up the ante?"

I blinked. Had I heard that correctly? Did she say a million?

"Anyone? Lucius, you sure? Going once... going twice? Great." Thorne looked over at the auctioneer who was still fast asleep. "I'd ask if we should wake Sluggie, but to be honest, I was the one who put him to sleep in the first place. He'll wake up once we're gone. I'll just... pay on my way out." She flashed me a thumbs up. "Let's get outta here."

A million galleons for me? Thorne thought I was worth all that money? She wanted to — what? Train me? Adopt me?

A hand under my chin had me raising my head. Thorne was tall and gangly, with a long torso and unnaturally thin arms. "You ready?" She touched my collar, and it turned to ash under her fingertips.

"I don't know," I mumbled, rubbing the tender skin of my neck.

"For now, there are only three things that matter.” Thorne held up a finger. “One. I'm getting hungry, and I become a raging you-know-what when I'm hungry, so hurry along so we can eat dinner. Two. For better or worse, you, sweet, clueless boy, are now my apprentice, which means it will be my responsibility to ensure sure you don't become the-boy-who-died-too-soon. And three." She raised her voice so everyone in the chamber could hear. "In one year's time, you'll be strong enough to kill me, and when that time comes, I'm going to make sure you follow through with it."

Whispers broke out.

Thorne grabbed my hand. The male side of her face was facing me: handsome features, sharp cheekbones, blonde eyebrows. She turned, so the female half was toward me: freckles, brown eyes, skin crinkled by age. She was testing me, gauging my reaction, as if she were Frankenstein, and I was a butterfly resting on her finger.

She didn’t have to worry. Thorne was weird, and strange, and powerful, but she didn't scare me. I didn't know her, but I _knew_ her. Like most butterflies, I could recognize gentleness when I saw it.

"Thorne?" The word left my mouth before I had a chance to think about what I was going to say.

At the door, Thorne dumped her bag of coins into a collection tin labeled: GALLEONS GO HERE. "Yes?"

She led me through one hallway, then another, up an elevator and down a flight of stairs, along a room with a ceiling so high I couldn't see its end, and past a pair of double doors into the lavender soaked haze of twilight. 

"Harry," she whined, "tell me what you were going to ask."

"I don't know," I mumbled. "I spoke without thinking."

"No, no, no," Thorne argued, "you felt _compelled_ to speak. I could tell."

Had I felt compelled? Maybe. I didn't know the right — the appropriate way — of saying it. Commuters passed us on their way home and Thorne stopped to greet a few of them by name.

"Harry," Thorne moaned, "the suspense is killing me."

I sighed. She wasn't going to let this go. "Fine."

"Actually, hang on a second. Let's go this way." Thorne led me down a dark alley on the far side of the street. Orange twilight slanted in. The bricks smoldered — a rich, dark chocolate. 

"Right,” she said. “You were saying?"

"You don't need to worry about it."

"Uh... what?"

Hoping she'd understand, I tapped my index finger against one of the stitches that ran through her nose, and with the same finger, tapped my temple.

 _I'm not afraid of you,_ I said with my eyes. _You're like me._

Thorne's gaze softened. We stood in silence for a long moment. "Have you ever apparated before?" she asked.

I shook my head.

"You should prepare yourself. It's a bit of a trip. Put your hand on my shoulder, will you?"

Hesitantly, I reached up and grabbed her shoulder. Then, before I had a chance to react, before I knew what was happening, Thorne turned on her heel, and we vanished with a loud crack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta’d by Jarizok


	3. The Truth Seeker

**"THIS IS A TRUTH-SEEKER."**

The object in Thorne's hand had a composition similar to that of a spinning top: two copper circles hovering at perpendicular angles with a tiny rod running through the middle.

"You balance it on the rod like this. And when you spin the outside wheel, the pressure it generates by rotating keeps the vertical axis stabilized. Pretty neat, huh?"

Thorne's house was a fairy tale cottage made corporeal. Vine and moss coated the exterior, creating a layer of green velvet so lush, the entire house seemed like a natural extension of the overgrown, English countryside. There were far too many doors and not enough windows. Above a roof covered in pink roses sat a brick chimney that furled grey steam into the dark, night sky. We were currently in the kitchen: an odd room lined with cabinets, cauldrons, and chairs far too tall for the table sat around.

Upon entering, Thorne had thrown on a garish green apron and declared she was going to make, _"The_ _best_ _beef stew in all of England."_

I wasn't sure I believed her. After watching Thorne drop a metal spoon, two socks, and a screaming cabbage into the mixture, her culinary ability seemed circumspect at best.

"Bet you wanna know what it does." Thorne bounced up and down on her chair, waiting for me to respond. "That wasn't rhetorical, silly. Go on, ask."

"Uh... how does it work?"

Thorne shrugged. "No clue. But it does. That's magic for ya!" She leaned forward, eyes wide as saucers. "Ask me something. Anything."

A glass jar sitting on the countertop caught my eye. A little creature floated inside, suspended in gelatinous, blue slime. "What's your favorite color?"

Thorne giggled. "Now, now. That’s too easy. It has to be something _hard_ to answer."

At that moment, the pot on the stove gave a great shudder. A violent gust of steam burst forth, and Thorne skipped over to lift the shivering lid. "This is turning out great!" she said, taking an appreciative sniff. "Are you excited to try?"

I nodded.

The truth-seeker stopped spinning and fell to the table with a dull _thud_. I stared at it, mortified. "I didn't even say anything..." I mumbled.

Thorne threw back her head and laughed. "Don't look so horrified, shortie. I knew what I was doing. For some reason that escapes me, _everyone_ gets all nervous when they see me cook. I don't let it get me down, though. People got real antsy when they heard Mozart play for the first time too, so I'm in _good_ company."

As she stirred the stew, I wondered if Mozart had ever dropped a whole piece of raw meat on the floor, dusted it off, and threw it into the pot anyway.

A newspaper on the table caught my attention.

 _THE LIBERATOR  
_ _August 1st, 1995_

Below the paper's title, in big bold print, was the front page article.

 _YAXLEY PUMPKIN PARISHES ENDANGER ESTUARY STABILITY  
_ _Written By: Thomas Abbott_

"What are you looking at?"

I glanced up. "Newspaper."

"Oh, _The Liberator_ ," said Thorne. "They're great. Better than _The Prophet_ for sure."

"What — " I began, but Thorne interrupted.

"Bowls," she sang, and three wooden bowls flew from one of the cabinets to hover in the air in front of her.

"Stew!" she ordered, and three globs of steaming brown liquid hopped from pot to bowl like a fish wriggling above water.

"Table," she crowed, and the three bowls floated over to rest on the dining room table in front of me.

It was bloody brilliant. Was there anything magic couldn't do?

Thorne stuck her head out of the kitchen. "Hey, emo queen," she bellowed, "it's time for dinner."

I heard the soft patter of footsteps on the floor above.

"You'll like Daphne." Thorne untied her apron and sent it flying to a peg on the far wall with a flick of her wrist. "How to describe her. Uhm... well..."

Footsteps coming down the stairs.

"There's really no other way to describe her than..."

The front door opened and closed.

"Ohhhh, I'll just say it. She's an emo little drama queen. But she's _my_ emo little drama queen. You'll see."

And see I did because a moment later, Thorne's apprentice slouched into the kitchen.

Daphne Greengrass had pale skin marred by patches of light pink. Her cheeks, her jaw, her neck, her arms... they were everywhere. _Not just patches_ , I realized, _burns_ . Burns so severe that even though her wounds looked many years old, new skin had not encroached yet on what still remained dead, as if something _prevented_ it from doing so.

"What are you looking at?" Daphne snarled. Her gaunt eyes narrowed the way a starving wolf might watch a cowering rabbit. She was assessing, calculating, trying to determine if I were worthy of being caught in her crosshairs.

"Sorry,” I stammered.

Daphne covered her face with both hands and whispered something too low to make out. When she looked up, the pink was gone, hidden behind unblemished skin. "Happy now?"

I shook my head, embarrassed. "No. Sorry, I didn't mean to — "

Daphne flipped her long, blond hair over her shoulder in a movement that seemed too practiced to be casual. "Whatever."

Thorne raised an eyebrow. "Did something happen today, emo queen? You're in a bit of a mood. And by that, I mean, you're being _yourself_."

Daphne grunted, sat down, and started shoveling food into her mouth. For all the attention she paid me, I might as well have been invisible.

"We've been together a while," said Thorne. "Since Daph was eleven, actually. That makes it... almost seven years now." Her voice rose, grand and glorious. “Yes. Seven _wonderful_ years full of joy and laughter and puppies and good times, and — hey shortie, aren't you gonna eat?"

The interaction with Daphne had left me feeling nauseous. My stomach was in knots. I didn't want her to think... I hope she knew I didn't think less of her because... I had to try again.

"Daphne?"

She didn't look up.

"Look, I'm sorry. I really am."

She ignored me.

Thorne sighed. "Could you at least _try_ to be a normal person emo queen?"

Daphne smiled a deceptively sweet smile. "No," she said simply and went back to eating.

"You know how teachers always say, be yourself no matter what?" Thorne paused for effect. "You could stand to do that less."

Daphne slammed her spoon down on the table and rose. "Then _you_ " — she jabbed a finger at Thorne — "Can. Fuck. Right. Off."

"Dinner's not done yet."

The temperature in the room became frigid. Ripples appeared in my stew. The world turned black and white, flickering along the edges with static. I squeezed my eyes shut as the walls closed in around me. Intense pressure — Thorne's magic. I smelt roses, felt bark under my fingertips and —

"Harry!"

The pressure vanished. A hand on the back of my neck had me standing on the other side of the kitchen. The room came flooding back. Thorne standing, one arm outstretched. The kitchen, the stew, the cabinets. Daphne in her chair with a blank expression, a look of calm indifference on her face.

My words tumbled out, tripping over themselves. "You didn't feel that?" I asked her.

Daphne raised an eyebrow, looking sideways at Thorne. "Is he broken or something?"

"The pressure... you didn't... you didn't feel...?"

Was I going insane?

"Like tar and ash..."

_Like the Dark Lord's magic._

Thorne sat back down, picked up her spoon, and ate a mouthful of stew. A sound of contentment escaped her. "Fuck me. I really outdid myself. This is good shit. You should come back over here and try some, shortie. You look like you could use a good meal."

Daphne sighed. "This tantrum is exhausting. Can I go?"

Thorne's gaze flickered to her.

"Stop talking," I whispered.

There was a long silence. "Excuse me?" asked Daphne.

"You're making her mad."

Daphne rose from her chair with a sneer. "Lesson one, idiot: Thorne doesn't _get_ mad."

"Yes. Thorne. Does."

Daphne stared at Thorne like she'd never seen her before.

"It seems that Harry, in a feat of perception you'd do well to strive for, experienced a bit of my" — Thorne coughed delicately — "anger leakage, which must have been less than pleasant.”

"However," — and here, she turned to look at me directly — "you should know that what just happened was _normal_ . Often, when young, muggle-raised wizards first enter the magical world, they experience a period of adjustment where their brain rationalizes the _unexplainable_ as things they know to be _explainable_. In other words, as you experience more, you’ll grow less sensitive.”

Thorne paused. “Or, maybe you won’t. Who knows. All I know for sure is that if you don’t come back to the table and eat your stew right now, I — as your benevolent all-knowing teacher — will forcefully feed it to you even if it takes all damn night. And _you_ , emo queen, are going to sit here and be pleasant. Because, as I have often told you, family time is about _love_. And family time starts. Right. Now."

Thorne was right; the stew tasted terrific. The moment I started to eat, I realized how hungry I was.

"See?" Thorne said when I finally set my spoon down. "When it comes to stew, I'm basically Mozart."

Daphne reached across the table, grabbed my empty bowl, and walked to the sink. The faucet turned on. For the first time, I noticed the other two bowls were already gone.

Remembering my manners, I looked over at Thorne. "Thank you for dinner, miss..." I trailed off, realizing I didn't know her last name.

"Oh _god_ ," snorted Thorne. " _Please_ don't call me miss. I'm _just_ Thorne, and My Chemical Romance over there is _just_ Daphne. We're family."

Yeah. As if.

"Hey, emo queen? Would you be a good little apprentice and make us some tea? Oooh! And bring out some of those chocolate-cookie-mint things."

Daphne grunted.

"Harry?"

I turned back to Thorne, who looked distinctly uncomfortable.

"This isn't the most pleasant thing in the world... but there is one thing we need to take care of tonight. Legally speaking."

_Legally speaking?_

Thorne grimaced. "We both need to sign a contract specifying the terms of your apprenticeship and send it off to the ministry for approval. Then, in a few months, we'll appear before an adoption committee. They'll give ya a truth potion and ask a bunch of questions about your apprenticeship experience. Wizards take Noble Adoption real serious, so it's important they're able to verify I'm treatin' you right."

During my time in the foster system, no one came to check on me. The fact the magical world did was... comforting... I guess. Seemed like they really did take adoptions seriously.

Daphne placed a cup of tea and two chocolate biscuits in front of me. The smell of honey lay heavy in her hair. It was so intoxicating I had to blink a few times to clear my head when she finally moved away. The tea tasted of licorice, and the chocolates were infused with mint.

"Then," Thorne continued, "assuming the meeting goes well and our contract is accepted, we'll file official paperwork in the records office, and if neither of us dies, that'll be that."

_...huh?_

"Sorry, did you just say _die?"_

"As I said, Wizards take Noble Adoptions seriously. If either of us lies about anything... we'll just dissolve. _Poof_. It's old magic of a very non-discriminatory nature. Not worth worrying about."

I nodded slowly. There was so much about magic I didn't know.

"So... you want to do that now?"

Thorne leaned back, balancing her chair on its two hind legs. "Nah, not yet. That's private — not something for emoqueen to stick her prim little nose in."

Daphne's lip curled. "As if I'd want to."

"What I wanted to do tonight," Thorne continued, ignoring her comment, "was a little introduction, I guess. You learn about us, we learn about you. Family time." She gave Daphne a flick on the forehead. "Go on, emo queen. You first. Likes, dislikes, relevant history. Be charming. With all the gentleman callers you entertain, I know you must possess some form of wile."

"Introductions..." Daphne mused thoughtfully. "Well, when I was ten, my twin brother killed my entire family in front of me. Sex is great, feelings are lame, and I definitely hate conversations like this one." She batted her eyelashes at Thorne. "Good enough?"

"You know, the greatest mistake I ever made was adopting you."

Daphne snapped her teeth together in response. 

Thorne turned towards me. "It would be great if you could tell us... _me..._ a little about yourself. How you ended up... where you did. It doesn't have to be everything, either! And if you're not comfortable, emo queen can leave."

I shook my head quickly. "No, I... I'm not precious about it. I just..." The dregs at the bottom of my teacup swirled in lazy patterns. "Talking about myself is... people don't usually ask me stuff about... it's not, um... it doesn't come up."

" _Harry._ " Mystery Girl's voice filled me with fiery warmth. She was a curious little thing. I felt the rope in my mind jiggle as she looked around.

I took a bite of chocolate, chewing as slowly as I could. The truth-seeker spun round and round, friend and foe in equal measure. "I lived with my aunt and uncle as a kid. They told me my parents died in a car crash, but... guess that's not the case. I was never a great fit for them. We were different. I was bookish and didn't... I was just different. 

“It got worse when I was six. Weird things started happening to me. I'd hear singing when no one was there. I'd close my eyes one place and open them in another. One time, I made a tree grow through my aunt and uncle's house. It was hard on them. The magic. They didn't sign up for it and, uh, didn't have room for me. So... I left.”

Vernon and Petunia. My first home.

"I thought I was crazy. I mean, it all makes sense now, but back then... I didn't know what was happening to me. I ended up in the boonies, _deep London_ , you know, with a group of kids like me. Not magical, but... on the fringe. Prolly found them when I was about seven."

My second home. That didn’t end so well either.

"They were all older by, like, a ton. They'd seen more, done more. They were tired. Wanted to escape however they could. Don't think I would've called myself unhappy, but... they wanted to escape more than they wanted to eat so..." I shrugged. "Got sick, went to a hospital for a while, escaped. When I got back, I found that they'd, erm, managed to escape permanently. Time blurred a little... I wasn't counting birthdays, obviously, but I was probably... ten when I found Peverell Point."

I smiled, remembering. "It was a bed-n'-breakfast down south that included a variety show as part of the whole experience. The guy who ran it was a good dude. Hired me when he didn't have to. Room and board. Everything. I was really grateful. Money wasn't bad either. Now I realize it was a bad move, obviously. But the people watching, they didn't think anything of it. No one knew it was real. I was just some kid to them... a kid that could conjure fire. It was nice while it lasted." 

I paused, trying to remember. "Went back to my aunt and uncle's after that, but they weren't there anymore. Tried foster care when I was eleven, but..." I shook my head. "It was _bad_ . _Worse_ than bad. I knew I had to split. So I figured I'd get myself arrested and mooch meals off the system til I was eighteen. That's how I wound up in St. Brutus's Center for Incurably Criminal Boys."

I smiled. "Oh man, it was the best. I had books, I had privacy, I had a job working in the chapel... it was the most normal I'd ever felt. Until Mister Snape showed up, I thought it was the best I'd ever be able to do because... there was nowhere else.

"I couldn't believe it when he told me. _Magic? SERIOUSLY!?"_ I laughed, remembering that first conversation atop the roof of St. Brutus's chapel. "Everything suddenly made more sense. When Mister Snape asked, _do you want to sell yourself to the highest bidder to be taught magic_ ? I was like, _sign me up!_ I'd done that once _already_ to get into St. Brutus's. Whatever lay ahead... I just knew it _had_ to be better than what I was leaving behind."

Excitement rose in me like the tide of a great wave. " _And it was — it is!_ I met you, I met Daphne, I had beef stew for the first time! The world feels new and fantastic in a way I never thought it would. A million galleons... it's crazy. A million galleons for _me_ ? I can't believe you did that. I don't think _anything's_ worth that much."

Thorne was staring at the ceiling as if it were the most interesting thing in the world. Daphne's gaze was fixed on the truth seeker.

I coughed, suddenly feeling awkward. "So, yeah. That's me.”

Still, nobody moved.

"I like reading and, uh, structure. And the quiet. So yeah."

A long silence.

"Tea!" Thorne's chair skidded across the floor. "Definitely need more tea." In a flash, she was at the sink, fiddling with the kettle.

I shouldn't have shared so much. I frowned, staring at my cup. But how could I have known Thorne only wanted the good stuff?

Words spilled out, almost of their own accord. "That's why I’m sorry about staring earlier, Daphne. I don't want you to think... I don’t care or anything. I mean, you know, we all have stuff we're dealing with. So... I get it."

Daphne's eyes darkened. "Will you just" — she slammed her hands down on the table — "fuck off about it already?" She pushed her chair back and stormed from the room without another word.

I stared after her, confused. "What did I do wrong...?"

"Don't worry about it." Thorne was back, teacup in hand. "She's just... it takes her a while to warm up to new people."

I took a bite of one of the chocolate biscuits.

"They're good, right?"

I nodded enthusiastically.

Thorne chuckled. "If I were you, I'd have so many questions I wouldn't know where to start." She hesitated for a moment, before asking, "Is there anything in particular...?"

"Back at the auction, they, the wizards, I mean, they called that Dark Lord guy a... a god. Is he... are you...?"

"Are we divine?" Thorne fiddled with a ring on the fourth finger of her right hand. It was a well-worn thing: smooth, off-white in a yellowing kind of way, and inlaid with seven dark gemstones that had long since lost their luster. "It's pretty, isn't it?"

I nodded.

"It's the only thing I have left that reminds me of me _before_ I was me. Old little thing it is, but... there you have it. To answer your question, yes and no."

 _Thanks,_ I thought, _that was helpful_.

"Don't go making that face," said Thorne, laughing. "I'm going to explain it. See, when wizards speak of gods, we're not referring to them in the same way muggles do."

"...muggle?" I asked.

"Oh, right, you wouldn’t know. Muggles are people who can't do what we can. Normies, for lack of a better word. For them, God _is_ magic, and magic _are_ his miracles."

"I don't... I don't understand," I said.

Thorne nodded. "No... you don't. I suppose the real question is... what does it mean to _have_ magic?” She reached toward the ceiling, fingers spread wide. The lighting fixture above our heads, a gas lamp covered by an enormous quilted canopy, dimmed to a mere flicker.

"Imagine... an ordinary shrub."

A nimbus of cold, grey light grew behind the canvas. The shadowy silhouette of a bush appeared. Thorne snapped her fingers — " _Incendio!" —_ and the bush erupted in emerald-green flames.

"I often think how strange it is that so many risked so much for a spell so simplistic, an eleven-year-old could perform it."

Angry storm clouds coalesced across the dark canopy. Lightning furled across the horizon.

"Floods." The silhouette of a ship sailing through the night.

"Locusts." A furious storm of insects.

"And perhaps the greatest of all those things." The silhouette of a tree, etched in gold flames.

Thorne's eyes gleamed, her gaze grew fierce, and her fingers stretched higher as an orb of light formed in her palm. A rainbow dripped from the tree above us, running down her fingers like water. Water turned to ice as the rainbow hardened, coalescing into a polychromatic ring that circled Thorne's orb of light as if it were the neutron of a collapsing star. Even when Thorne closed her hand around it, even when blinding light splintered from between her clenched fingers, she never let go. And then, just when it seemed she could hold on no longer, Thorne threw her star skyward, and a universe exploded into being.

My mouth dropped open in wonder. A beltway of shooting stars, a storm of falling ice, a planet swirling with red and blue clouds — it was all there! A world, a universe, a _galaxy_ . It was terrifying and beautiful and unknowable and the wonder of it all made me _ache._

"What is it?" I whispered.

Thorne's eyes were closed. "Choice," she murmured. "Creation. Magic does much. Not all, but much. Creation, _true_ creation" — she snapped her fingers and the universe folded in on itself — "remains elusive."

And just like that, we were back in her kitchen.

"For muggles, faith is important, faith in _something_. God, telly, science, sex... why are we here? What's the point? How can we understand? What way do we turn?" Her face fell. "With wizards, it's different. We know less. Compared to non-magicals, we're still quite... quite young."

"Why do you talk about them like they’re different?" I asked.

Thorne smiled. "Curiously, we share no common ancestor with... non-magical creatures. We came from... somewhere else... _something_ else. With the muggles, it's different. They can trace backward, see the path behind them, that sort of thing, you know. With us, though?

"We... _appeared_ almost 4,000 years ago. We did not _evolve_ to our maximum potential. We were _created_ that way. The first wizards believed our magic was a gift from god. You understand what I mean by god, now, right? The _ability-to-create._ In the eyes of the first wizards, the only force equal to our own was... nature incarnate.

"God became nature, nature became magic, and magic became god. Therefore, the gift we had — _magic_ — was meant to exist _harmoniously_ with nature because it was a natural extension of it. Or, that's what they believed, at least. We were — uh — humanoid, but not quite... human, if their memories serve as any indication. The muggles called us nymphs."

"You can... I mean, they lived 4,000 years ago... so how...?"

"Good question," said Thorne with an approving nod. "A pensive is a device that allows magical people to store memories for future playback. We know much about the first wizards because they stored that information for future generations to see." Her smile became sly, as if reaching a point she'd been driving toward. "Wizards are the only magical creatures capable of using pensives. And yet, pensives aren’t of our invention. Even before we arrived, they were already here _waiting_ for us. Strange, don't you think?"

 _Spooky, more like_.

"So how did we become — err — human?" I asked.

"There was a war between wizards and... whatever beings were here before us," Thorne explained. "One thing led to another, and it got nasty. We, wizards, were almost wiped out by the conflict. And after we eventually made peace, what did we do? We fucked like poodles in heat. Domesticated ourselves real proper. For all purebloods talk of purity, they're little more than Labradoodles in the grand scheme of things.

"That's the reason so many wizards hate non-magic folk. The more we bred with muggles, the farther away we grew from our wizarding ancestors." She rolled her eyes. "Some of them have this idea that if they keep their blood pure now, it'll reverse the damage." Thorne snorted. "As if. But that's what the Dark Lord promises them. Purity of blood. You can understand why he's so popular.

"See, folks call the _Dark_ Lord _dark_ because he is an implicit affirmation of the dark's identity — proof that _their_ philosophy is the _right_ philosophy. If _he's_ the most powerful, then _their_ philosophy is correct. Wizards have this expression... magic is might, and might is right. It's not a truism.

"When you meet a wizard who calls themselves _dark,_ they're not declaring themselves a supervillain or anything. It's not moralistic, but political. When wizards call the Dark Lord a _god_ , they're not saying he's _divine._ They're saying he can _create_ the kind of society they want to live in. It's basically an honorific.

"To sum up a long and incredibly pedantic history: some of us" — Thorne pointed to herself — "believe that magic in society is meant to exist _harmoniously_ with nature while others, of course, believe the opposite: that the role of magic is to _impose_ its will unto nature. This is our most significant division. It encompasses every aspect of our lives as magical beings.

"Take our education. One of the reasons a British institute of magic never came to be was because Light wizards fundamentally opposed it. The standardization of education sat poorly with 'em. The more, uh, nationalized our standards became, the less wild the magic we used would have become. People would've been pushed to the center instead of being allowed to exist on the fringe. Over time, it would've lost much of its individuality.

"If you remember nothing else, always remember this. Magic is not a utility. Nor is it a tool. It has no cost, little reason, and very few rules. It poses challenging questions and offers few answers in return. For wizards, magic is our fundamental method of expression. It's... _wild_ . It's a hurricane that levels a whole town, it's a mother fox who sacrifices her life so her cubs can live, it's a mountain that cracks in half after a million years of standing against the sea, it's _us_ sitting here talking about it right now. 

“It's creation, it's destruction, it's the wilderness. It _likes_ people. We have magic, not because of birthright or genetic probability, but because magic _wants_ to play with us. The reason some wizards are more powerful than others isn't that they have more magic — it's not a _substance_ in that way — but because... magic itself finds them more interesting."

"And it…” I frowned, trying to figure out how to phrase my next question. “The magic... it likes the Dark Lord?"

Thorne nodded.

"And it likes you."

Thorne nodded again.

"So... you're a god because...?"

"Because I, as you should know by now, am a fucking queen.”

"But why...? Why him... why you?"

Thorne sighed. "Remember what I told you about the first war? Our solution to end the fighting was to have... _magic..._ choose our champion. It was more economic to pin our hopes on the most powerful than gamble the existence of our entire civilization. Thus, the first children of prophecy were created."

Something clicked in my mind. The Dark Lord's words at the auction, they finally made sense. _You're meant to be my equal... the child of prophecy..._

"The wizard who spoke for magic's will was a seer named Muiry. Couldn't use magic himself, but he heard it in a way others couldn't. You know how the rest of this story goes, right? He chooses the champions, they fight, the war ends. Muiry prevented us from going extinct. It was viewed as... proof he could keep us on track. So, ever since then, we've let him choose our champions."

"But how does he do that?"

"The Goblet of Fire." Thorne’s voice was soft, reverent. "It’s... a powerful magical object that contains the last vestiges of Muiry's will. It cannot be hoodwinked, cannot be fooled, and its location is guarded with the utmost secrecy. Its will, its prophecies, have been interpreted by seers for millennia."

Something very painful was happening in my mind. The way Thorne was talking... the way the Dark Lord had spoken to me...

"But I'm not..." I looked at Thorne imploringly. "I _can't_ be a... can I?"

"The answer to your question is... maybe. But also, yes."

I stared at her with raised eyebrows.

"Normally, the Goblet of Fire's prophecies are kept secret to preserve the safety of those it selects. It's considered bad form to attack a child of prophecy before they reach magical maturity, but people still do" — Thorne gave me a meaningful look — "obviously. Hence, it's kept secret. So, you can imagine how surprising it was when the _Daily Prophet_ announced you were a child of prophecy three days before you were due to be born.

"People went nuts, it was a nightmare. No one could tell if the leak was credible or not, and the seers weren't telling us anything. There was nowhere your parents could run because the Dark Lord, by that point, had absolute control over Britain. The fact they managed to elude him for a year is, honestly, astoundingly impressive. But, unfortunately, their luck ran out. Halloween came and went. Your parents vanished. You vanished. To this day, no one besides the Dark Lord knows what happened."

"But they said..." My head was spinning. "At the auction. They said it was a freak accident... and Aunt Petunia, she... she said it was a car crash."

"Only one thing is clear to me," said Thorne. "That Halloween night, the Dark Lord marked you as his equal. That scar on your forehead isn't an ordinary cut, kiddo."

Mister Snape's words on the roof. _Even among our kind, you're... something of an abnormality._ History repeating itself — again. My magic, always out of control. The Dark Lord's words.

A laugh bubbled out. "So it doesn't matter if I _am_ a god or not. The Dark Lord believes I am, and that means..."

_That I'll never find a place to belong in the wizarding world. I'll always be different._

"It means," said Thorne, "that the Dark Lord will never stop trying to kill you because he believes you're the only one who can kill him."

At that moment, I desperately wanted Thorne to be wrong. Thoughts of a normal life, a life of utility and usefulness, dissolved in ash around me. "What if I don't want to kill him?" I asked.

"That's not your choice to make, kiddo."

"What if... what if I run?"

"There's nowhere left you can hide."

"But... but... but they said at the trial... they said I was hidden in the muggle world for _years_ without..."

"That," said Thorne, cutting across from me, "was an anomaly. No one knows how — "

"But aren't you good at magic? Couldn't you hide me?"

"It's not as simple as that. You — "

"Okay, but — "

Thorne's words were hard. "If you hide the Light will fall. How many died while you were hidden? How many died in the _search_ to find you? How many more will die in the Dark Lord's _quest_ to kill you? Are you _actually_ a child of prophecy, Harry? Who knows. The story of your entire life seems to confirm it. 

“Wandless magic at age six? Hearing nature sing to you? Making a tree grow through your relative's house? That's _abnormal_ because it suggests you have an understanding of magic that goes beyond mere _intuition_ . Magic isn't just some tool you possess. It's a force within you that _asks —_ no, _demands —_ that you use it to shape the world around you. Haven't you been listening to what I've been saying? It's _literally_ a burden of leadership that's been placed on your shoulders."

So that's why Thorne had adopted me. That's why she had paid a million galleons. That's why... that's why I was here. It was because of the ancient wizard guy. It was because I had something to do, a task to fulfill. And even if I tried to escape, Thorne owned me. There was nothing I could do.

"I'm a god," I whispered.

A pause, a tiny exhalation, and then, "yes."

I felt numb.

"You're going to make me kill him."

A pause. "No, Harry, I'm not."

I looked up. 

Thorne took a deep breath. "You have no idea — “ She stopped and shook her head. After a moment, she tried again. "The Dark Lord is — “ Again, she stopped. A sound frustration left her. "I don't know how to talk to you," she admitted.

I didn't know how to talk to her either — but then again, I didn't know how to talk to anyone. In many ways, I had spent so long hiding my magic from the world, I had forgotten how to be... part of it. Sometimes it felt like the more I _wanted_ to talk — the more I wanted to _not_ be alone — the harder it was to make the words come.

"I'm not made of glass," I said quietly. "Just say what you want to say."

Thorne nodded slowly. "Okay, look. There are dark wizards who are good, I'm not saying there aren't, but in England, most of them are..." She grimaced. "It's not just the Dark Lord _,_ you understand. It's everyone _under_ him. It's what they do to people. It's what he allows to happen. The magical population of England, it's devastated. Most sensible folk are gone. Talk to anyone. People are terrified. And, for all intents and purposes, you're the only one who can stop it."

Thorne laughed, a thin sound. "It's never happened this way before. The gap between you and he... children of prophecy are always born close to each other — always. It's without precedent! The Dark Lord is fifty — no, _over_ fifty! — years older than you. And you're fifteen. _Fifteen!_ It's almost funny. The Dark Lord, he's so strong, so skilled. I can barely... and Albus won't... and you... until yesterday, you were gone. How you were hidden is a mystery, but when I found out you were back?"

She leaned forward, hands clasped together as if she were holding something precious. "Harry... you don't understand what it meant. For the first time in I don't know how long, I thought to myself... maybe we have a chance. What he does to the people here, you have no idea..."

We sat in silence for a while.

I thought things over.

The wizarding world sure was a strange place. Prophecies, gods, chosen ones, dark lords, ancient seers... it was batty. I liked Thorne, though. She was nice even if she was really strange. I liked that, though — I could deal with strange. And it certainly _seemed_ like Thorne wanted me around. 

Maybe... I could find a place to belong here. Maybe... I wouldn't have to be alone anymore. If I had to fight a Dark Lord to make that happen, well... I was willing to pay that price. 

"Do you think I can beat him?" I asked.

Thorne sighed. "...I hope so.”

"And it would make you... happy... if I did?"

Thorne nodded.

If I was honest with myself, I also _wanted_ to trust Thorne. I _wanted_ to believe she was truthful — that she was who she seemed to be. This morning, in the span of ten minutes, the Dark Lord had almost killed me. Twice. If he wasn't going to leave me alone, if I couldn't hide any longer... I needed someone in my corner. 

Not knowing what else to do, I reached over and gave Thorne a little poke.

"You didn't introduce yourself earlier.”

Thorne seemed to be the happiest when she was talking. If I could get her to talk, maybe she'd cheer up.

She chuckled. "I'm Thorne. I'm a dummy. I'm insensitive. I do things without thinking. I'm not just _one_ Thorne. I'm many. I'm confusing. I'm batty. I don't make sense. I'm a mess of contradictions in a dress. I'm... a substitute god. Here for a while, but not always. I'd tell you my life story, but... it's not very interesting. Let’s... why don't we do the contract now."

Silence fell as Thorne left the room. In her wake, warmth crashed down on me. _"Hello Mystery Girl,"_ I said.

" _Fleur."_

" _Fleur?"_ I asked, confused.

" _My name. It's Fleur."_

Oh.

_"You have a pretty name."_

"Harry?" Thorne was back, parchment and quill in hand. "Most families have a lawyer draw their contract up. I did it that way with Daphne, and let me tell you, it's pretty time-consuming. So, because I'm old and have no time to waste, we're gonna do it the fast way." With a flourish, she set the parchment down. "We'll take turns writing our expectations on the back of this mail order form. Only thing I had lying around. Awkward. Hope the contract office likes Bubotuber pus."

I didn't bother asking what Bubotuber pus was. It sounded... icky.

In loopy cursive, Thorne labeled the parchment:

_CONTRACT OF DESTINY_

I peeked over her shoulder as she finished writing her first demand.

_1) HARRY POTTER will always treat THORNE like the goddess she is._

When Thorne handed the quill to me, I leaned down and wrote:

_thorne will always make sure harry has food._

Thorne shook her head. "Shortie... that's not how contractual language works." She took the quill and scratched out my line.

_2) THORNE will make HARRY POTTER whatever food he wants, whenever he wants it._

Throne scribbled her next request.

_3) HARRY POTTER will not enter THORNE'S bedroom under any circumstances._

Weird request, but okay.

"Trust me, I'm doing this for your sake. I've got morning breath like a you-know-what."

The truth-seeker stopped spinning and fell to the table with a _klunk._ For a moment, we both stared at it.

"Aha... awkward. Anyway."

Thorne passed me the quill. As fast as I could, I scribbled:

_thorne will teach harry magic when she has the time._

Thorne snorted. "You really need to work on your assertiveness."

Again, she rewrote.

_4) THORNE will devote her body, heart, and soul to the magical education of HARRY POTTER._

"Now that's what I call a contractual imperative," she said proudly. Humming to herself, she wrote the next line with letters so large it took up half the parchment.

_5) HARRY POTTER won't lie to THORNE about anything,  
_ _ever, under any circumstance, on pain of death._

I stared dubiously at that line. For a second time, I tried to explain I wasn't a talk-shit-out kind of guy.

"Well, get ready, buddy. We're a talk-shit-out kind of family."

_thorne won't lie to harry._

Thorne stared at it for a moment. "Sorry, kiddo," she said and scratched it out. Her quill paused, hovering on the parchment. "Oh, fuck it," she muttered after a moment and wrote:

_6) Until he's strong enough to stand on his own, THORNE will never lie  
_ _to, discourage, or abandon HARRY POTTER in any way, shape, or form._

While I was reading, Thorne wrote her next request.

_7) When THORNE asks HARRY POTTER to kill her, HARRY POTTER must obey._

I froze, hesitating. "Why?"

"When I ask you, you'll understand. Sorry kiddo, them's the rules."

Fleur's voice. _"She wants to pick her killer."_

" _Why?"_ I asked, but I never heard Fleur's reply because, at that moment, Thorne gripped my chin, tilted my head down, and stared right into my eyes.

"Who's in there with you?" she asked softly.

"Um... I think... I think she's a friend?"

"Hm." Thorne tilted my head left and right, observing from all angles. "Occlumency first, then."

A new emotion came from Fleur — arrogance, smugness. _"I'd like to see you try."_

"Harry? There's still one point left."

Oh, right... the quill was in my hand. I stepped back to show Thorne what I'd written.

 _8) If, after this contract is signed, HARRY POTTER asks THORNE  
_ _why she must die, regardless of circumstance, she_ _must_ _answer._

Thorne whistled through her teeth. "Dangerous." Her eyes were calculating. "What's to stop you from asking tomorrow?"

I pointed at rule numbers one, two, three, four, five, six, and seven.

"This is... important to you?"

A short nod.

The contract between us burst into flames.

"We didn't sign it," I pointed out.

"We are gods." Thorne's hazel eyes bore into mine. "Only one contract binds us."

She touched my temple. "You will do it. No matter what?"

I touched a stitch in the center of her nose. "When the time comes, when you ask me to... I will kill you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta’d by Jarizok


	4. Swimming Upstream

**WHEN I WOKE THE NEXT MORNING** , the world beside my window lay slumbering, still drenched in a haze of purple starlight. Only the trees rose to greet me. Shy things, trees were. They peeked from behind moss-covered boulders, waving timidly with fingers gnarled with age.

 _Hello,_ I said.

 _Hello_ , they responded.

Thorne's door parted, and the world splayed out before me. It felt like a dream. A second chance. I didn't have to be alone anymore.

A neon noodle popped out of the dirt at my feet. Its head bent forward into an upside-down L. It looked around with an experimental swivel: left, right, up, down. When it saw me, it jerked — an exclamation mark! — and screamed with delight in a high-pitched voice full of wordless wonder. It burst from the dirt and swam away, flowing through the air like water. Without a second thought, I followed it. As I passed them, the trees waved again, and I put my hand on their gnarled, old trunks as thanks for their morning greeting.

The forest breathed me in.

Leaves kissed my cheeks, bark grooved beneath fingertips, and moss clung to my clothes. The noodle split into two, then three, then four. They dropped to the ground, slithering beside me, forming a glowing path through the underbrush to guide my way. I heard running water, a burbling river in the distance.

 _Why do you want me to go there?_ I asked, but the forest only shook its head and laughed, pushing me along with playful low-hanging branches. A break in the trees loomed ahead, and dusty moonlight peeked through. The water grew louder, the leaves grew fewer, and my pace quickened. The noodles buzzed, practically vibrating as they zoomed forward to the end of the trail. When I reached them, when I finally stepped past the break in the trees, the noodles spun around me one final time, screamed, and dove back into the ground with an overwhelming sense of victorious finality.

I was on an embankment, standing at the apex of a gentle decline. A warbling river flowed below, and on the bank of this river slept a boy whose hat lay draped across his face. He wore blue overalls, a yellow plaid shirt, and black galoshes. To his left was a fishing rod, propped on a collapsible metal stand. A compact toolbox lay open on his right, its contents spilling forth onto the ground below.

"You don't need to stand all the way back there."

I froze. "Sorry?"

The boy yawned. "You can come sit if you want. I don't bite."

After a moment of hesitation, I joined him on the riverbank. The smell of wet earth filled my nose, and damp grass clung to my fingertips.

"Didn't know anyone lived 'round here," said the boy.

It was strange that the forest had led me here. Was this boy a wizard? Was I allowed to speak to him? Did the forest want me to?

"Quiet type, huh? That's fine. My brother's the quiet type. Always readin'."

 _Remember,_ I told myself, _this is your new life._ _You can do this. Talk to him._

"You fish?" the boy asked.

 _Right, of course,_ I thought. _The boy is fishing. We can talk about fish! Brilliant!_

"No," I said. "Do you?"

"Every morning for a couple years now."

"What's it like?"

"S'fine. Salmon passin' though at the mo'. Salmon are good. Better than Trout. You ever eaten Trout?"

"No."

"Tastes awful. Like mud. It's the _worst_ when all I catch is Trout."

"Do you eat all the fish you catch?"

"'Course," said the boy. "A guy's gotta eat, don' he? Fish for dinner, seven days a week. Been that way long as I can remember. You like fish?"

I shook my head. "Sorry, no."

The boy laughed. "Yeah, me neither. Say, I like you, what's your name?"

"Err — it's Harry. Harry Potter."

The boy froze. He removed his hat and placed it on the ground next to him. Red hair, freckles, a smudge of dirt on his nose. "Too right you are." He extended a hand. "Ron Weasley."

We shook. Ron's hands felt rough and calloused like sandpaper lay beneath his skin.

"So that's where..."

"Yes," I said quickly. "But I can't remember it."

Ron flopped back down, annoyed. "That was rude."

I looked down. "Sorry," I muttered.

"Not you," said Ron. "'Course I wasn't talkin' 'bout you. What would mum say, honestly? You, newly arrived, and me, gawkin' at you like you're a hippogriff in a zoo." He shook his head. "My bad, mate. Honestly."

"It's fine, honestly."

I needed to get this conversation back on track.

"I mean, I just remember a lot of green light, but not much else."

"Awful," said Ron with a shudder. "Actually, wait a mo'. Now that I think of it, I seem to remember mum sayin' summit 'bout you last night. My grandfather, too. Billius is his name, not sure if you met him, but boy did he talk about you. Old as dirt with one foot in the grave and he still insisted on going. Mum had a cow. You're too old, she says. You're brittle, she says. But he wouldn't hear it. Kept on rambling about tradition." Ron rolled his eyes. " _Codger."_

There was something... easy about Ron. Something that made me like him. He didn't seem... complicated. Not like Thorne, not like Daphne.

"So you're with her now, yeah? Thorne?"

I nodded.

"She's let me family fish on her land for ages. That's why I'm here, see. Most folks with tons of land — folk like _her —_ they charge. My folks offered, but she wouldn't hear it. Great witch that Thorne, my mum always says. Never met her myself, though. What's she like?"

"Err..."

_How in the world do I describe her? A hurricane-in-human-form. A bloody-scary-bubble-spewing-hell-demon._

"...overwhelming."

"Guess most folks like her are," said Ron. "Gods."

"Yeah... that."

While we had been talking, the shimmering silence of dawn descended upon us. The grass beneath my fingers grew warm, and honey flowed across the sky. For a time, we sat in silence, listening to the burble of the river and the buzzing of the bees.

Ron picked up his rod and gave it a little shake. "It's not going well for me today."

He reeled the line in, and when it came out of the water, I saw there was a tiny blue fish attached to the end. Ron held it close to his face, inspecting it from all angles. "Yeah... this isn't working for me."

With scientific precision, he set the rod in his lap, grabbed a knife from the toolbox lying open at his side, cut the end of the line, spooled out more, grabbed a new yellow-fish-thingie also from the toolbox, tied it to the line along with two metal-looking-thingies, fiddled with a complicated mechanism at the bottom of his rod, pulled his arm back, and cast the line back into the river again.

My mouth dropped open in awe. "Wicked."

Ron gave me a weird look. "It's just fishing. I'll teach you if you want."

I nodded eagerly. "Yes, please."

Silence stretched between us, but I didn't like it this time. Watching Ron's line bob in and out of the water made me anxious. I wanted to keep speaking, wanted to learn more about him.

_Okay! I'll ask him another question. Uhm..._

"Do all wizards fish?"

"Most," said Ron. "Magic can't make food, so... we gotta get it off the land."

Oh. That was a new one.

"Magic can't make food?"

Ron shook his head. "Nah. There's some rule about it. Dude named Grunt... Gramp... Grorp... learned about it in lab, but I'm dumb as bricks, so obviously, it didn't stick."

"You don't seem dumb as bricks to me," I said.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, mate. 'Course you haven't met my brothers, though. Sharp as tacks. Me? I'm... patient."

 _Yes,_ I realized, _that's what it is — that's what I like about him. His nature... it's patient!_

Ron jerked the rod and reeled it in a little. "Most of my family hates this. My brothers, they're not mornin' people. And with fishin', it's _always '_ bout the mornin'. Only time for it, really. Actually, that's not true. With magic, you can do it anytime."

"You can fish with _magic_?"

There was so much I didn't know.

"'Course,” replied Ron. "Most wizards use magical tackle. Either a potion... or a charm... or summit. Fools the fishies. Makes it easier. I don't do it that way, though. I'm more of a do-it-myself kinda guy. Doin' it with magic has always seemed like... cheatin', I guess. Gotta meet them fishies on an even playin' field."

He pointed to his lure. "Below the surface, you have all these fishies swimmin' down there, lookin' at everything — fishie stuff, hell if I know what it is — and my tackle is meant to look like a little fishie. To fool 'em. Logic is that if the fishie bites the tackle, I win, cause I fooled it. And it's fair because the fishie I caught would've killed the smaller fishie had it _not_ been the tackle."

"So why so many kinds of tackle?" I asked.

Ron's face lit up. "Strategy, mate. Strategy. The fishies, they're not dumb. They know we want 'em. 'Course they do. If I was a salmon... _pfsh_... I'd never leave me house. Or I'd eat m'self." He laughed a little at that.

"That's why it's a battle between me and them. Pure wits. None of this fake intelligence bookyness, neither. A fishie can tell a book person from a mile away. They won't bite, 'cause they don't respect 'em. You gotta be patient, think things through. My brothers, when they came out here, they were always lookin' to get the job done, go back home, and sleep. Not that I blame 'em."

He yawned. "It's so bloody early. Startin' the day before the sun's even up? Bloody travesty, I tell you. But it's like my dad always says. If you gotta do something, might as well do it right."

"But what happens if... if you don't catch any?"

Ron had a knowing look in his eyes. "That's the doubt talkin'. I don't listen. I'm always patient, so I _always_ catch the fishies. It's just the way things are. Fishies try n' swim away, I try n' catch 'em. I win cause magic likes me more."

As if to prove his point, the end of his rod jerked and wriggled. "Aha," Ron cried. "Gotcha!"

An intense dance began. Ron would reel the line in, and then let it go. Reel it in, and let it go. His brow furrowed, his eyes narrowed, and sweat dewed on his glistening forehead. It was so intense I hardly dared breathe.

And then—

" _It's salmon!_ " Ron crowed as a wriggling fish broke the surface of the river. _"_ 'Course it is. _Salmon!_ Oh man, I thought I was gonna get stuck with _Trout_ again. This. Is. Great!"

The morning passed easily. The way Ron thought, the way he spoke to me — it made talking to him easier than anyone I'd ever met. Ron asked me questions about the muggle world and, in turn, told me about the wizarding world. Before I knew it, the sun had risen, and the river bank was bathed in the wholesome glow of daybreak.

"You hungry?" Ron reached into his toolbox and pulled out four sandwiches, wrapped neatly in brown paper. He tossed one to me. "Eat up."

"I can't take this. It's yours," I said, but Ron wasn't listening.

"It's Roast Beef," he moaned. "Why is it _always_ Roast Beef? Soggy lunchmeat don’t belong. Makes the bun lose its integrity. Nice and firm, that's what it should be."

I wanted to laugh. "You've thought about this a lot, haven't you?"

"Oh, don't give me that look. I know, I know, I _am_ grateful. Thanks, mum, and all that. But it's just... she _always_ packs me Roast Beef. Trust me, you'd be doing me a favor by taking one of 'em off my hands."

He looked me up and down. "Also, no offense, mate, but you look like you could use all the sandwiches you can get."

I frowned, trying to figure out if I had been insulted.

But I never got a chance to ask, because a rustle in the trees had Ron turning to the forest at our backs. "The valiant Cassanova returns!" he cried. "Come to regale us, eh, Blaise?"

Blaise Zabini had a careless quality to the way he walked, an aura of confidence that could pull off walking through the woods half-naked. He was just... cool. Tall and lanky, with olive skin, high cheekbones, and lips that were lush and full.

"Kicked you out, did she?"

Blaise sprawled on the grass, grabbed the sandwich Ron was holding, and started to eat with gusto. "Fuck," he mumbled with a mouth full of food. "This is so good. Your mom is a goddess, Ron."

"This is Blaise," said Ron. "Been my best mate since... _pfsh_... prolly since I was ten, even though he's three years older. Blaise, this is my newest mate, Harry Potter."

Blaise raised a hand. "Nice to meet you." Little crumbs of bread flew from his mouth, spraying Ron with a deluge of crumbs.

"You're disgusting."

Blaise smiled. His teeth were dazzling. "Jealous?"

"It's beyond me how any girl could find you attractive."

"Have you seen me?"

I had to admit, the man had a point. He had more confidence in his pinky finger than I had in my whole body.

"So... she _did_ kick you out?"

Blaise grunted.

"Sorry? Didn't hear you."

"Fine," Blaise grumbled. "She kicked me out. Happy?"

"Blaise has a bit of a _thing_ with Thorne's other apprentice," Ron explained. "You prolly know her on account of — "

" _Oh_ , right," said Balise with a look of dawning comprehension. "You're Thorne's other apprentice."

Daphne. Yikes.

Ron sniggered. "I know that look. Pissed her off already, did you?"

I nodded. "She hates me."

Blaise ruffled my hair — he was the kind of person who could pull it off. "Nah, mate. It's not you. She hates everyone."

Ron slung an arm around Blaise's shoulders. "She even hates Blaise, and they shag on the regular."

Blaise rolled his eyes. "Shut up, Ron."

"You're _weak._ "

"Whatever asshole. Give me my potion."

Ron rummaged in his toolbox for a moment. "Where is it?" he muttered. "Know I brought it with me this morn — ah! Here it is." He withdrew a corked vial filled to the brim with a strange neon-green mixture that swirled with large clusters of interspersed air bubbles.

"I've got acne," Blaise explained as Ron handed the potion to him. "This here's a boil cure remedy. Ron's mum makes it for his brother." With a grimace, he uncorked it and downed its contents in a single swallow. He shuddered and handed the empty vial back to Ron. "Thank your mum for me, will you?"

Ron snorted. "Thank her yourself. She was just talkin' 'bout you this mornin'. Says it's been ages since she's seen you."

Blaise gave me another one of those _cool-guy_ looks. "What can I say? Been busy."

"Mum's sweet on Blaise," said Ron. "I'm positive she only makes Roast Beef because he loves it."

I looked down at the sandwich Ron had handed me earlier. "Take it," I said, trying to give it back.

Ron shook his head. "Nah, mate. I gave it to ya. Sandwiches seal friendships. It's a rule. Plus, I hate roast beef."

I sat, stunned. Had Ron said _friendship_?

Oblivious, Ron turned back to Blaise. "See how nice he is?”

"Maybe he feels bad for you. Merlin knows I do."

Ron made a rude hand gesture.

"Oh, _that's_ attractive."

" _Fuck off_ , Zabini."

I blinked. _Zabini..._ I recognized that surname. The woman in the auction, the one who saved me. Could this be her son?

"Your... your mom..."

"Ahhhh," said Ron knowingly. " _Mon amour._ Sweet, sweet Arabella."

Blaise looked horrified. "Oh, no. What did she do?"

"Nothing!" I said quickly. "She... Mistress Zabini... she saved my life!"

It was silent for a moment.

"...mistress?" asked Ron quietly.

I looked between him and Blaise. "That's what she said... I should call her."

Another silence.

Ron looked at me. I looked at Ron. Ron looked over at Blaise. "Mistress," he said evenly. "Well, that's certainly... interesting."

Blaise buried his face in his hands. "I wanna die," he whispered. "Why is she always _hungry_?"

Ron roared with laughter. "Your mom is so fetch, Blaise."

" _Don't call her that!_ "

"What can I say? I speak for the masses. You'd hit that too. Right, Harry?"

My cheeks felt hot. "Of course not," I mumbled.

"Oh, Merlin." Ron started tapping Blaise on the shoulder, almost hopping up and down with glee. "Oh, merlin, Blaise, look!"

Ron was pointing at a boy who was jogging on the opposite side of the river. He was very handsome, with wavy brown hair, a strong jawline, and more muscles than I could count.

"Hey, pretty boy!" Ron bellowed. "Oi, pretty boy, over here, pretty!"

Blaise put two fingers in his mouth and wolf-whistled. "Take off the shirt and give us a show, Ced."

The boy on the other bank stopped. "Fuck. Off. Assholes," he hollered back.

Blaise laughed. Ron blew kisses. The boy made a rude hand gesture and jogged off.

"That's Cedric," said Ron.

"Local heartthrob."

"Adonis."

"Witch's wizard."

"And all-around swell guy."

"Oh, Cedric," said Blaise in a girlishly high-pitched voice, "do you need some help oiling those _big_ muscles?"

"Oh, _Cedric_ ," simpered Ron, "do you need a rub down after that _long_ run you just took."

"Oh, Cedric," moaned Blaise with a gasp of surprise, "where does that trail of hair _lead_!?"

"Oh, Cedric," Ron almost screamed, "yes... Yes... _YES!_ "

They dissolved in peels of laughter.

"You'll see him eventually," said Ron once they'd calmed down. "There's a bridge a few miles ahead where he loops around."

And so the morning progressed. Blaise and Ron bantered back and forth as the sun slowly rose above us. Ron continued fishing. Blaise provided commentary. When Ron reeled in nothing, Blaise would say he had as much luck finding fish as he did chasing girls. And when Ron caught something, Blaise would stick his nose in the air and say the fish were just taking pity on him.

Just as Ron predicted, Cedric eventually passed us. When he did, Ron threw him the last Corn Beef sandwich — "Give us a show, Ced!" — but Cedric just unwrapped the sandwich, threw the wrapping paper back at Ron, waved at me, and kept on running.

It was the best morning I had ever had. I didn't say much, and no one asked me to. I just smiled and smiled and smiled and smiled and smiled. The muscles in my face hurt from it, but I didn't care.

"So, this is where you've been."

It was Thorne.

Ron and Blaise fell deadly silent.

"Dude," whispered Ron, "that's her."

I looked at them sideways. There it was again—the silent fear.

"Come on," I said. "I'll introduce you."

I took a few steps towards Thorne, but they didn't follow.

"Dude... that's..." Ron's voice was quiet. "I dunno."

"She’s a _god_ ," said Blaise emphatically.

"Hardly anyone's seen her."

"I'm at her house all the time, and _I've_ never even seen her."

"She's nice," I said. "I promise."

"It's just..." Ron shifted from foot to foot, staring at the ground. "She's a _god_ . She's on a chocolate frog card. I _own_ her chocolate frog card. It doesn't seem... appropriate."

I decided then and there that I hated it. I _hated_ the way wizards spoke about gods, hated the way power was irrevocably linked with fear, hated the way Thorne played into it by keeping her distance and not coming to join us.

"Fuck appropriate," I muttered and marched off towards Thorne.

After all, if people couldn't talk to _her_ , what did that mean for _me_? Was this what my life was going to be like? Were people going to avoid me, refuse to speak to me, because of power I didn't even want?

No. No way. This was my new life — my reinvention.

"Look," I said as I reached her. "I'm sorry if this is rude, and you can punish me for it later if you want, but I think the gods are stupid, and I think the prophecy is stupid, and I don't think you're scary, and I'm not going to be either. So" — I grabbed her hand — "come with me."

Each step towards Blaise and Ron felt like a victory, a big _"fuck you"_ to the stormcloud hanging over my head. Thorne was saying something, but I wasn't listening because I just didn't care. I wouldn't be abnormal _._ I was going to have a normal life. I was going to have friends. People weren't going to look at me with fear anymore.

"This is Thorne."

Ron's face had lost all color. Blaise's mouth hung slightly open.

Thorne's lips curved into a smile. "If memory serves," — she pointed at Ron — "you're Ronald Weasley. And you're" — she pointed at Blaise — "the boy who makes the headboard of my apprentice's bed bounce against my bedroom wall."

Blaise made a squeaking noise that sounded like, "oopsie doopsie."

"It's nice to meet you. Now, as for you, shortie," — Thorne tapped my temple — "we've got things to do today, so let's scram."

"See?" I said to Ron as she led me away. " _Told_ you she was nice."

"Harry?"

I turned back.

Ron waved. "See you tomorrow, yeah?"

"Yeah," I said. "Tomorrow."

A bubble of happiness swelled up inside me.

"So," said Thorne as we walked back to her house, "what _did_ you get up to this morning?"

"I think... I'm not sure... but I _think_ the forest helped me make my first two friends."

Thorne ruffled my hair. "Good for you, kiddo."

I smiled, and it felt like the forest smiled back.

* * *

 **BY THE TIME FIVE O'CLOCK ROLLED AROUND** , the elation of my morning seemed like a distant memory.

Thorne's expression was blank, wiped clean by surprise. "I'm sorry — could you repeat that?"

The Wandmaker Gregorovitch bowed to her. "I'm sorry, madam, but it appears I am unable to find your apprentice a wand because he" — he turned to me — "because _you_ do not believe yourself worthy of one."

"I don't... understand," I whispered.

Diagon Alley was a wizarding street in London, located behind a pub called the Leaky Cauldron. Shops lined the cobbled street on either side, selling every sort of magical ware imaginable. We had spent the afternoon here, buying items that, according to Thorne, were essential for any young man's magical education. By five o'clock, these included: a pewter cauldron, three handsome feather quills, a supremely flamboyant (in my opinion) assortment of wizarding clothes I was certain I'd never wear, two books inscribed with glyphs in a language unknown, a trunk with brass fixings, and a tiny golden ball called a snitch.

Only one item remained on Thorne's list: a magic wand.

"Gregorovitch is a bit prickly," Thorne warned as we walked to a shop at the very end of the alley.

The moment we stepped in, I felt it — _magic_. A thousand scents, a thousand tactile sensations. It was unexpected and so ferocious that I had cried out and fallen, overwhelmed at the sheer amount of information circulating through my head. And the pressure — sweet god — it made everything I’d felt up till then seem lightweight by comparison. Had Thorne not intervened when she did, had she not put me to sleep, I don't know what I would have done.

When I next opened my eyes, I found myself lying on a leather couch in a room that was mercifully devoid of sound. Gregorovitch, a heavy-set man with hungry eyes and thin lips, had introduced himself and explained we were in his workshop. The first wand he placed in my hand had been yew and dragon heartstring, eleven-and-a-half inches. The moment my hands curled around the burnished handle, a bolt of scorching electricity shot up my arm, causing the wand to burst into flames.

Five more of Gregorovitch's creations met the same end.

After that, he’d declared I was a tricky customer and that he would craft a wand for me finer than any seen before in Britain. Following that pronouncement, I had spent several minutes staring at my reflection in an ancient silver basin filled to the brim with reflective black water. 

Gregorovitch took notes during this, and every once in a while, he would mutter, "curious," in a voice filled with wonder. Finally, he placed my hand on several different materials to determine the material my magic was most resonant with. If his test was any indication, my magic was compatible with nothing, as all the material he placed before me varied from thoroughly unpleasant at best, to downright painful at worst.

His conclusion shouldn't have been surprising. It certainly shouldn't have had me expelling the contents of my lunch onto the floor of his workshop. But as I sank to my knees in the vomit I'd just expunged, all I could hear were his words repeating over and over again in my mind.

_You're not worthy of a wand._

I don't remember Thorne cleaning me up, but she did. I don't remember leaving Gregorvitch's workshop to stand in the alley outside his shop, but I did. I don't remember Thorne asking him to repeat the conclusion she'd already heard him say three times, but she did.

All I could remember was the wandmaker bowing to us as he said, "I'm sorry, madam, but it appears I am unable to find your apprentice a wand because he" — he turned to me — "because _you_ don't believe yourself worthy of one."

"I don't... understand," I whispered.

_What did that mean?_

Thorne's hands never left my shoulders as we walked back to the Leaky Cauldron. They never left my shoulders as she spoke to the Leaky Cauldron's bartender in a voice too soft to make out. They never left my shoulders as the bartender led us through the pub to a room in the back lined with flour from floor to ceiling.

Pressure. Being squeezed through a tight tube. Biting wind.

Cold night air, too cold for summer. Snow dusting my face. Oh, we weren't in Britain anymore. My breath filled my ears — loud, too loud — it was all I could hear.

Thorne in the snow. Thorne kneeling in front of me. _Are you okay?_

I looked away. I didn't feel like it. No, thank you.

A pair of hands on either side of my face pulled me — dragged me — back. Thorne's face, drenched in snow. _Are you okay?_

No — I didn't want to. _No, thank you_ . I said I didn't _feel_ like it.

My knees grew cold. Snow drenched my legs.

A pair of hands on my shoulders, dragging me — yanking me — back. Thorne's face, her eyes, her stitches. Snow everywhere. _Are you okay!?_

Thorne's pressure — roses and bark. Oh, well, hello there, magic. What was she trying to do? It surrounded me, _my_ mind. I felt it try and pull me under, pull me back down.

_Hm. I don't really want that. No, thank you._

I smashed it. Smashed it as hard as I could.

Warmth, fire.

Oh — Fleur. No, wait, not Fleur. It didn't come from the rope. It came from... wait, what?

Fleur's face, her blonde hair, her soft lips.

That didn't make sense. She was out of place. Fleur belonged in my mind with the rope.

 _You're not meant to be here_ , I told her.

Fleur _and_ Thorne. Fleur _next to_ Thorne. Fleur _talking_ to Thorne. Thorne _nodding_ at Fleur. Thorne _responding_ to Fleur. Thorne _talking_ to Fleur.

What was happening?

What were they saying? I couldn't hear — my breath was too loud. God, why were we here, anyway? Thorne didn't live in the snow. Couldn't we just go home?

Fleur's hands on either side of my face. Fleur's warmth. God, she was so warm. Fleur's eyes, her deep blue eyes. Her mouth moved, but no words came out.

_Oh — hello, rope. Were you trying to get my attention?_

_Tug, tug, tug._ If Fleur was here, why was she tugging? Maybe I was going crazy.

 _Tug, tug, tug._ Fire. _Fire_ on the other side of the rope. I remembered the fire. Remembered the Dark Lord, his eyes, ash and manure. Oh — that's right. I had chosen fire.

" _Harry!"_

I smiled lazily. _"Hello, mystery girl."_

" _Harry. Look. Down!"_

_...what?_

" _Harry! You'll! Kill! Us!"_

Thorne's hands on my shoulders. Fleur's hands on my face.

Oh... oh, I see. They were holding on. They were in danger. I'd _put_ them in danger.

" _Harry — you have to let go. You have to let Thorne bring us down. We're too high. The storm's too strong."_

Let go? Let go of what?

 _Tug, tug, tug._ Fire. Thorne. Fleur. Hands. Face. Snow. Fleur. Wind.

 _Tug, tug, tug._ Fire — yes, right, fire! _Fire_ on the other side of the rope.

 _Tug, tug, tug._ What was in my hand?

The rope. My hand on the rope. _My_ hand was holding the rope in place. _My_ hand was tugging on the rope.

_I HAD TO LET GO OF THE ROPE!_

...I let go of the rope.

I blinked.

My feet were on the ground. My arm was around Fleur's shoulders, her hand was around my waist. Dragging me. She was — how was she _doing_ that? She wasn't _that_ strong, was she?

Fleur’s voice, thick and accented. Bells, it rang like bells. Fire, she was the fire. "Is it much farther?"

Strange — she didn’t sound fatigued at all.

Thorne's voice. Light and bubbly. "Just up here."

At least my ears were working again. Thank God for small favors.

Thank god. Thank... _me._

I giggled.

A house atop a mountain braced against the wind. Straw — so much straw — and stained glass windows shining with warm, golden light.

Fleur stopped at the door. I let go of her waist. She turned to me. Her face, her eyes, her lips. _I'm alright,_ I tried to say, but Fleur didn't hear me.

I tugged on the sleeve of Thorne's dress. She looked down, face tight with worry.

The door opened, revealing an older man with wispy, white hair and deep gouges where his eyes used to be. His head moved from Fleur to Thorne to me, as if he knew exactly where we were standing.

"So, you've come." It wasn't a question.

Thorne's voice was tight. "Garrick."

The old man stepped aside. His home was like Gregorovitch's store. Wands. Wands everywhere. Lined with boxes. No noise, though. I didn't like noise. No pressure, no smell, no touch — nothing.

Hello, kitchen.

Goodbye, kitchen.

Oh, hello, sitting room.

 _Those animal rugs are lovely,_ I thought. _And so are those weird chairs. I've never seen a fire with green flames before. What are we — wait, no!_

Fleur's legs were on either side of mine. Her heat, all of her, lay flush against my back as she wrapped her arm around my stomach, holding me in place. The world spun. Spirals, shapes, colors, folding, bending, twisting, turning. Where was I going? 

The rope — where was the rope?

" _Harry."_

Fleur's mind pressed against me, smothering me. I saw the world through her eyes like I'd never seen it before. I saw Thorne, saw her _differently_ in a way both beautiful and terrifying; I saw the old man whose eyes burned like two lumps of flaming coal; I saw myself, saw my thin elbows and wrists, felt my ribs against my fingertips.

The old man was watching us. "So that's..."

Thorne nodded. "Yes."

"Incredible," the man whispered. "Such times to be living..."

" _Do you know who he is?"_ I asked.

" _Ollivander,"_ murmured Fleur. _"Garrick Ollivander. A Wandmaker. Perhaps the greatest."_

"We need your help," said Thorne.

Ollivander just smiled and rocked back and forth in his chair. "Holly and Phoenix feather. Thirteen-and-a-half inches. It's served you well?"

Thorne smiled slightly. "It has." She extended her hand, palm-up towards the wandmaker. Running down the middle of her forearm was a bump — a long, thin patch of raised skin held together by several crude stitches.

"Yes," whispered Ollivander. "Yes, I remember it well." His eyes drifted to Fleur, and through her, to me. "I would have thought... but no, perhaps not. The explosion..." he shivered. "I felt it in the air, the earth. Terrible thing, magic."

"Garrick," said Thorne, "will you help us?"

"Magic has a curious will." Ollivander reached a hand, palm up towards Thorne. Without hesitation, she placed her hand in his. The old man's eyes fluttered shut. "I see," he murmured as he released her. "I see..."

"Is he right?" Thorne sounded terrified. "Is Gregorovitch right?"

"Gregorvitch is a great wandmaker," said Ollivander. "A great wandmaker, a greater man. He risked much."

"Garrick. Is — he — right?"

"The wand chooses the wizard, Miss..." — Ollivander stopped, tilting his head to the side — "Mister..." — he stopped again, tilting his head to the other side — "there is more of you now." A terrible laugh bubbled past his lips, a laugh that made his yellow teeth gleam. "More of you. More thorns on the rose. Less rose, more thorns. Yes, yes. I see. Very good. Time is almost up."

"Please, Garrick," begged Thorne, "please."

Back and forth, back and forth, it was a wonder the chair didn't break. "The wand chooses the wizard," Ollivander whispered again. "Always chooses the wizard. But what if the wizard can't choose a wand? Why can't the wizard choose? Magic wants to be chosen, wants to be used. It's selfish. The magic is angry."

His face twisted terribly. " _Angry!_ I can feel it." He giggled, a drunk sound. "Does the magic serve its wizard? Does the wizard hate his magic?" Abruptly, he fell silent and stared into the fire for a long time. "Does the wizard hate himself?"

Thorne turned to look at me, at my unmoving form that still lay in Fleur's arms. "Does the wizard hate himself?" she repeated quietly.

I squirmed, trying to get out of Fleur's mind so I could respond, but her warmth squashed me like a bug. In her eyes, the stitches holding Thorne's face together seemed alive. I watched them slither through their sutures like a snake chasing its tail.

" _What's wrong with her?"_ I asked, but Fleur didn't answer.

She was staring at the wandmaker. "What does he have to do?"

The old man smiled sadly. "Magic is expressive, protective — why else would obscurials exist? Magic knows... how to rattle the cage. It must be taught... focused. The boy's magic was angry. Very, very angry."

Thorne buried her face in her hands. "I don't know what to do," she whispered. "Merlin help me, I don't know what to do. His magic, it..." she shuddered. "I couldn't do anything — I couldn't reach him. Even the Dark Lord, I've never felt..."

"It was black," agreed Fleur. "Wild."

"It was close, Garrick." Thorne held up her index finger and thumb, leaving a fraction of an inch between this. " _This_ close. Seconds more, and he would have been an obscurial. I had hoped a wand would stabilize him, but now..."

Ollivander threaded his long, knobby fingers together. "Wandlore is complex, ancient. Wands are not _created_ , they are _discovered_. Phoenix feather... dragon heartstring... unicorn hair... in four thousand years of study, we have found nothing more stable than what magic created before our own existence.

"Length, wood, core. Two finite, one infinite. No two wands are alike. No two unicorns, phoenixes, or dragons are exactly alike. It is curious that a unicorn might choose its wizard centuries after that unicorn has passed from this life. How does the unicorn know? _How_ does a wand choose its wizard? The elder wand: choice through succession. Hand, to hand, to hand. Does the unicorn choose, but not the elder?"

Ollivander started to rock again, more gently this time. "Wands _learn_ . Magic is not a utility, and wands are not a tool. They are alive. The elder wand _learned_ to choose its successor. Death, after death, after death, after death, after death. So, too, did the unicorn wand. Until it reached its owner's hand, until it connected with the wizard destined to wield it..."

"...it didn't know how, until it did," finished Thorne. "It learned."

"Harry Potter is no ordinary child," whispered the wandmaker. "He is a child of prophecy. Magic favors him. It _wants_ to be used. It has learned how to be useful. Magic is our fundamental form of expression."

"Magic is our most fundamental form of expression," echoed Thorne.

"It will treat us the way we believe we deserve to be treated. If Harry Potter continues to treat his magic as a defection, an abnormality, it will continue to help him express those thoughts."

"And since Harry's magic is _part_ of him," continued Thorne.

"Then every spell he casts, no matter the intention behind it, will attempt to do him harm," finished Ollivander. He hummed softly to himself as he rocked. "Magic as metaphor. Marvelous. It truly does choose. Truly.

"His training, whatever it may be, must be slow. The boy is too old for parents. And yet his magic is young, a child. It needs nurture, discipline. It does not have a sense of safety. And yet..." he raised his hands to the heavens. "And yet he is a child of prophecy. He is _chosen_ . _Our_ chosen."

Fleur made a sound of disgust.

Ollivander turned his head towards her. "No history is without succession," he said gently.

A low sound came from Fleur like two rocks scraping together. "Do not _lecture_ me." Her thoughts shimmered, changing color, whizzing by in a language I didn't know.

The burning coals in Mister Ollivander's eyes sputtered and became blue. "Ah..." he said softly. "I see. Yes. You are one of the ancients."

A sharp, booming _crunch_ came from Fleur, followed by a rasping, snarling _crack_ . Then another. And another. And another. And another. And another. Fleur's shoulders, _my_ shoulders, lurched forward. I watched her shadow, once a familiar silhouette bathed in light from a flickering fire, become longer and thinner. Her throat convulsed as —

_Pain..._

White, hot, boiling pain seared through —

Warmth. A shield.

The pain stopped.

Fleur's eyes opened.

Blue sepia soaked the world. My vision expanded, growing wider and... warped at the edges, somehow — I couldn't exactly explain it. The detail was _overwhelming_. I could see every strand of hair in the animal rug at our feed, every ember of green flame that crackled in the hearth, every ridge in the wood planks that constructed the roof.

Ollivander looked up into my — _Fleur's_ — eyes. "Incredible," he whispered. "Such times to be living." He started to rock again.

"Do your _friends_ know?" asked Thorne.

When Fleur spoke, her voice rumbled like rolling thunder. "No."

"Is he in danger?"

Fleur shook her head. "No... I... have not. I... _will..._ not."

"That's not my concern." Thorne paused. "I believe it possible you are the reason he did not dissolve today."

A deep rumble. Resignation, determination, regret. "It cannot exist... in... the same place as I..."

"So you're keeping his Obscurial at bay?"

"It... does not... like warmth..."

A nod. "Forgive me for asking, but... you must understand, you hold his life in your hands. All our lives..."

"I... care not... for wizards." Fleur's voice darkened, crackling with lightning. "Wizards took _everything_ from me. But, I will... give... him... warmth." Melancholy — a dreadful, hurricane of grief. "Maybe... I should not have come here today. Maybe... I was being selfish."

Fleur ran her fingers through my hair. Lock after lock, each strand rose and fell beneath her fingertips. I saw it all, etched in detail beyond mere realism; a single moment that, for Fleur, seemed to go on forever. 

When it was over, when that detail faded from the world, I knew Fleur had changed. One thing was clear — I was not the only passenger in Fleur's mind. Something deep and dark lived with her, a shroud of thought so multifaceted, so dense and eldritch in nature, its understanding lay beyond my comprehension.

I tugged on the rope.

 _"What are you?"_ I asked, but Fleur didn't respond. All her attention was on the question Thorne was asking.

"How do I know you're telling the truth?"

Anger, resentment. "We do not possess the ability to lie. You took that from us."

Thorne sighed and rubbed her eyes. "How can he learn magic without a wand? The OWLs are in November."

Ollivander made a small sound and looked skyward. "If magic wills it, he will find a way." He chuckled. "The boy is gifted, we both know this. Magic calls to him. The world is stirring. You've felt it, too. The Old World," — he nodded at Fleur — "the world of the Ancients has taken notice."

Thorne nodded slowly. "I have heard the Bone Carver is on the move."

Fleur hissed.

"The Bone Carver..." Ollivander's voice was thoughtful. "Now that's a name I've not heard in a very long time. The last time he walked among us... those poor Peverell boys. They did not anticipate how his gifts would haunt them. If what you say is true, if Bone Carver walks among us once again... the others will soon follow. I fear there may be more at play than Muiry has divined in his prophecy." Ollivander sighed. "Any news from Albus?"

"Still a eunuch," said Thorne.

"For one such as he to live without magic..." Ollivander trailed off. "To _willingly_ live without magic. Unthinkable."

"The world burns while he sits idly by."

"He must do as his conscious demands. As must we all."

Thorne closed her eyes. "Do we stand a chance, Garrick?"

It was oddly reminiscent of the question I asked last night in her kitchen.

The old man chuckled. "We will, if magic wills it. And will it, it must. The Dark Lord must not win."

"The Dark Lord must not win," echoed Thorne.

They said little after that. At a certain point, both Ollivander and Thorne left, leaving Fleur and me alone in the sitting room.

I felt oddly calm — separated from my body, adrift Fleur's psyche. The world grew dim. All I felt was Fleur, her breasts against my back, her face nuzzled against my neck. It occurred to me that I must have returned to my body, though when I didn't know.

When I tried to ask, Fleur just laughed.

"Sleep, Harry," she whispered. "Sleep..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta’d by Jarizok


	5. The Web of Chastity

**THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, I HAD MY FIRST MAGIC LESSON.**

It was... not fun.

" _Reducto!_ " A vase beside my head burst apart.

" _Expelliarmus!"_ A spewing stream of red light missed my face by inches.

" _Fumo!"_ Thick, black smoke furled around me.

I ran, coughing.

"Thorne!" I cried. "Help!"

My feet pounded down the hallway. Distorted black shapes slunk across pure white walls, a hypnotizing array of geometric sensuality: circles splooging into triangles, triangles bulging into squares, and squares sinking into circles.

I skidded to a stop. A tall, narrow window blocked my path. It was a dead end. Frosted glass, sunny day beyond. I pressed my fingers against it. So close, and yet...

I looked from side to side. No doors line the hallway — _nothing_. Ruby carpet at my feet, black and white diamonds on the ceiling.

Where should I go? Where could I run?

Footsteps, coming in hot.

I tensed.

_Please be Thorne. Please be Thorne._

I let out a sigh of relief.

It was Thorne, and she was _sprinting_. Her hands waved randomly in all directions, her feet flumped and flomped on the floor beneath her, a look of utter concentration lay across her face, and she wasn’t slowing down.

And she wasn't slowing down.

...she wasn't slowing down.

She — wasn't — slowing — down.

Thorne grabbed my waist. Her body curled against my side. Her knees bent as her feet dug into the carpet.

_Smash!_

The window splintered against our backs, and we were in freefall. A cerulean sky, the crowded storefronts of Knockturn Alley, five men staring from the window we’d just left.

" _Arresto Momentum!_ "

Our descent slowed.

" _Bombarda!"_

The cobblestone street bulged inward. Each stone bent like an elastic band, shaking with tension. Then, when that tension was too much to bear, the cobblestones _fwanged_ back up and the street smashed apart. A massive shockwave pounded up from the pavement, creating a wave of compressed air that bore us skyward in a miasma of dust and debris. At the height of this ascent, we paused, for the briefest second, suspended.

"So," said Thorne conversationally, "let's have your first magic lesson."

She swung me onto her back as if I weighed no more than a feather, grabbed the underside of my knees, pointed her hand at the window we had just jumped from, and said, " _Religo._ "

Her hand jerked forward, and we zipped toward the window on an invisible line. Her knees came up — I closed my eyes — and as we swung back through the shattered window frame, Thorne smashed her feet into the wizards blocking our path.

 _Thud_. Her feet hit the carpeted ground.

" _Sto Manus."_

The men cried out as the entire room turned on its axis — red carpet above, black and white diamond below.

Thorne cackled and took off running.

"So," she said, "every spell has three basic components. You have to learn the theory behind it." She ducked as a bolt of green light sailed over her head. "Practice the mechanical performance of it." A jet of fire scorched the wall beside us. "And have the will to see it done. You get all that?"

I was currently trying not to vomit.

" _Finite,_ " said Thorne, and the world flipped again — carpet at our feet, diamond above our heads.

We were now on the far side of the hallway. A spiral staircase descended away from us, leading toward the first floor. Next to it was a sign.

 _Second floor use restricted.  
_ _Borgin and Burkes employees_ _only.  
_ _Thank you very much._

The wizards were stumbling towards us, dizzy and disorientated. Each of them wore a blue cloak emblazoned with a dazzling yellow star and an expressionless silver mask that conformed to the confines of their face.

Thorne raised her hand. "So, to sum it all up. I move my hand in a 'z,' focus on a feeling of zazziness, and say, _Fulmen_."

Lightning leapt from her palm, racing up the walls, the floor, the ceiling, a galloping array of gleaming blue light. It struck, sizzling as it skewered the wizards who howled and fell to the carpeted floor.

Thorne made a sound of satisfaction. "See?"

"Let... me... down..." I groaned.

"Oh come on, shortie," said Thorne as I slumped against a wall. "Magic is fun. C'mon, I'll teach you your first spell."

I shook my head and pulled my knees to my chest. "Please... no."

But, this was Thorne, and she would not be deterred. "Repeat after me." She squatted down and pinched my cheeks, moving them as she said, "Win-gar-dee-uhm Leh-vee-owe-sah."

I closed my eyes, trying to make the room stop spinning. "You're... a madwoman."

"You're being lame.”

"Choke on dust."

"Go on, say it."

"Winlardigum Lemiosa."

"That's the spirit," laughed Thorne. "To perform the spell, you swish" — she slashed her hand through the air — "and flick" — she jerked it forward — "and say..." she trailed off, watching me expectantly.

"Windargidum Levivulva."

" _Owe-sah_ ," she corrected. "Win-gar-dee-uhm Leh-vee- _owe_ \- _sah_ . Please, and I can't stress this enough, _never_ say Levivulva, or you'll end up with a bad case of the you-know-whats."

 _"This woman is crazy,"_ observed Fleur.

_"Yeah, no kidding."_

A few minutes later, as we were rifling through piles of magical artifacts in the shop downstairs, I discovered why Thorne had dragged me to Borgin and Burkes in the first place.

"Ah! Here it is!" She tossed a rubber chicken at me. "This is going to be your wand."

I looked from the rubber chicken, to Thorne, and back. "This is a rubber chicken."

"It's not _just_ a rubber chicken. It's _your_ rubber chicken. And one day, it'll save your life."

"So, we just went through all that so you could get a rubber chicken?"

"No,” said Thorne seriously. “We just went through all that so _you_ could get a rubber chicken."

"But... how did you know it was here?" I asked.

"It's mine," said Thorne as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "I lost it in a game of cards years ago. You know what they say: _at least it wasn't a dragon egg._ "

"But... it's a rubber chicken."

"Yes, Harry. It's a rubber chicken."

"But. _Why?_ "

"I wanted you to have something to practice spells with. A stick seemed lame, and rubber ducks are _fucking_ rediculous, so" — Thorne gestured at the chicken — "welcome to wizard school."

"You blew up half the street," I said in consternation.

"Yeah," said Thorne with a laugh, "oops. In my defense, it wasn't like I was _expecting_ to be met with resistance. Speaking of which, we need to figure out who those guys were because _I_ have never seen them before. Luckily, I know a guy who can help. Let me just grab one of their cloaks."

She turned and marched back up the stairs. "Also," she called over her shoulder, "not to freak you out, but we gotta split because the Aurors are seconds away, and to be honest, I really don't wanna fight them today."

Thus, my magical education began.

* * *

**LIFE SETTLED INTO A COMFORTABLE ROUTINE.**

Each morning, I'd wake early to help Ron with his daily fishing. When Blaise joined us, usually around eight, we'd eat breakfast. Ron would complain about his Roast Beef sandwich, Blaise would drink his boil-cure potion, and I'd sit quietly, grateful to have friends who wanted to spend time with me.

Around nine-thirty, Cedric would join us, and we'd hang out until eleven when my lessons with Thorne would start. After lunch, Thorne taught Daphne, and I practiced occlumency with Fleur. Next came dinner, after which Thorne would disappear to her bedroom, and I'd be left alone to read.

I loved reading about magic — tomes full of spells, histories of the wizarding world, complex treatises on magical theory — I consumed it all _hungrily_ . I now knew, for example, that all spells had: a mechanical component that involved _how_ a spell was performed, a theoretical prerequisite which involved _learning_ and _understanding_ the mechanical component of a spell, and a third mysterious entity Thorne referred to as _spunk_.

One day, I asked her to explain what it was:

"Spunk is the chip on your shoulder. It's the force inside you that stands up against the world. Haven't you ever had a moment where you were like: _I want this, and you can't stop me._ "

"Uh... no."

"Well, that's what you need to find, then. The most active element in magic is the ability to _believe_ you can create _._ To perform any spell, no matter how small, you need to have the courage to make a change in the world around you."

"But... what if I don't know how to change the world?"

"One day, kiddo, you'll realize it isn't as hard as you think. All it takes is one step, one choice, one _spell_ . That's the beauty of magic — it's our unlimited, ever-expanding capacity for _choice_."

So, I tried... I tried to be spunky. Yet, despite how hard I was working, after three weeks, the levitation charm still eluded me. By the last week of August, I could recite the incantation, perform the _swish-and-flick_ with my rubber chicken flawlessly, and I even knew how to control the spell's trajectory by focusing on _where_ I wanted the object to go.

Spunk was the key, the crucial element I was missing. I had to _want_ the spell to happen, _believe_ it would work, and _overcome_ the force preventing me from actualizing it. But no matter how hard I waved my rubber chicken, the magic never corporealized in front of me. For the life of me, I didn't know what was missing.

So, one day, I asked Ron about it.

"Remember what I told you 'bout the war on the fishies?" he'd asked.

"Sure."

"Well, what if I don't catch one right away? Second I get all, _boo hoo the fishies outsmarted me_ , they win. Game over, I go home. I jus' keep remindin' myself my lure's in the water too, right? It's never over till I reel 'er up. And I'm never reelin' 'er up till I've won. It's inevitable. Them fishies respect the hell outta me, so they'll always bite."

I knew my difficulties weren't normal. There was a cause for what was happening, a reason that explained my symptoms. But no matter how often I asked, Thorne wouldn't explain it to me — and she _knew_ . I saw it in her eyes when she looked at me, when she watched me struggling to levitate the feather. She _knew_.

The pity... I hated it.

I hated it because it meant I wasn't improving. It meant that despite the effort Thorne was putting in, despite how devoted she was to making me strong, the block on my magic was too resilient to surpass. The stress of it was all-consuming.

Every day I couldn't perform magic was another day people suffered at the hands of the Dark Lord. Thorne knew it. I knew it. _Daphne_ knew it, and she wasn’t shy about sharing her opinions. But what could I do? I had no information. Until Thorne told me what was going on, I had no choice but to remain in the dark, struggling fruitlessly for a light.

Occlumency, by contrast, was going much better than spellwork. The s _punk_ involved in occlumency was something I inherently understood. The principle was simple: when Fleur tugged on the rope, she was trying to get into my mind, and as long as I focused single-mindedly on preventing the rope from moving, she couldn't get in. Or, that's what it was in theory, anyway. In practice, Fleur would yank at odd times of the day, and I would try to keep her out, often with limited success. And trying to get into _her_ mind? Forget about it. I'd have more success trying to run headlong into a brick wall.

" _Silly little eel,"_ she'd say whenever I'd try to enter her mind. _"I am a flower not so easily picked."_

Thorne was... a force of nature — a hurricane in human form. She'd wake me up at three in the morning and we'd break into Florean Fortescue's ice cream parlor; she'd apparate us to Antarctica to see the Northern Lights; she'd charm my rubber chicken to sing the hits of Celestina Warbeck; she'd decide she didn't feel like teaching and would ask me tons of questions I had no way of knowing like she was an obedient student paying deference to a much-learned professor. She treated each day, each second, as if it were a precious jewel, a momentous opportunity that couldn't be squandered.

It was infectious, and to be honest, it rubbed off on me. By the time September 1st rolled around, Thorne had infected my life — every single corner of it. And I needed no more proof of this than my new life motto. It was profound but straightforward, and its implementation made a big difference in the quality of my daily life.

Here's what it was:

Sure, why not.

Thorne wanted me to wave a rubber chicken around for three hours every morning: _sure, why not._ My magic didn't work, and I couldn't cast a simple spell: _sure, why not._ An evil Dark Lord was trying to kill me because my name came out of the Goblet of Fire: _sure, why not._ There were floating pink hairballs that lived in my closet called Pygmie Puffs: _sure, why not._

On September 3rd, a month after my first magic lesson, I was eating lunch — beef stew, my favorite, _yum_ — when Thorne, who was reading a copy of _The_ _Liberator_ upside down, said, "We're going to the Jumble today to look at doohickeys."

"Sure," I responded with a shrug, "why not."

* * *

 **THE JUMBLE LOOKED LIKE IT SOUNDED** — a precarious tower made from an array of twenty-three shipping containers stacked on top of each other at odd angles. It was a building perpetually in motion. Each piece of the tower swung on an invisible axis, never in the same direction or at the same speed as the piece immediately under it. At times, the entire structure leaned to the left, at others, to the right, but more often than not, it was perfectly balanced, as if each piece was exactly where it needed to be to keep the tower standing.

"How does it stay up?" I asked as we walked toward it.

"Magic," said Thorne with a shrug. "The pieces line up at twelve, three, six, and nine o'clock. The rest of the time... it's a jumble." She laughed at her own joke.

"So, why did we come here?"

Thorne _always_ forgot to tell me what we were doing when she dragged me places.

"Ah, yes, I didn't say. Well, I haven't been able to dig up any information on those blue cloak guys who attacked us in Borgin and Burkes." She didn't look happy about it. "Which makes me believe they're not from Britain. Clinky, the guy who owns this place, is the guy to talk to if you need to know what's happening beyond our borders. I'm hoping he'll make it..." she trailed off, watching me expectantly.

"...less of a jumble?"

Thorne applauded. "Right."

"So... why am I here?"

"Absolutely no reason at all. I just figured — _hey, why not_ — the world is vast, and you need to learn more about it. Besides, it’s Sunday. You need a break."

"But I'm losing a day of practicing mag — "

Thorne flicked me. "Stop that."

"But every second I don't — "

She flicked me again. "Stop that."

I glowered at her. "Thorne — "

Fleur’s warmth flooded me. _“Harry. Calm down.”_

It worked, I did feel calmer. _"I honestly don't know what I'd do without you,"_ I told her.

Fleur _preened_.

As we approached the Jumble, a girl holding a wrench stepped out from the bottom of the tower. I looked her up and down. Slim shoulders, muscular arms, sharp eyes. The outline of a tattoo beneath a tank top stained with grease.

"He's not taking visitors today." She had a no-bullshit kind of voice.

"Hello Cho," said Thorne cheerfully. "He knows I'm coming."

The girl — Cho — raised her eyebrows. "His exact words were: _tell that sewed up bint to suck on eggs_."

Thorne licked her thumb and wiped a smudge of dirt off Cho's cheek. "I said: _he knows I'm coming_ . I didn't say: _he was happy about it._ Now, are you going to let me in, or what?"

Cho shrugged. "It's not me he's gonna bitch at." As I passed, she gave me a nod. "Hey."

Inside, the Jumble was round and spacious. Four fixtures of sputtering blue light hung from the ceiling, and tiny winged candles flew along them. The flames on their heads — yellow, green, and red — cast flickering spotlights of hazy color across the copper-plated walls of the tower. Metal stairs protruded from the wall nearest to us, climbing upwards, and at various points, passageways branched away from them that curved into darkness.

"This is Clinky's workshop," explained Thorne as we climbed. "He makes doohickeys."

"Uh... what's a doohickey?"

Cho spoke from behind me. "A doohickey is a magical object constructed from mechanical parts which is charmed to perform a single task. A snitch, basically."

"They have a lot of uses," said Thorne. "Surveillance. _Pleasure._ "

Cho groaned. "Don't remind me."

"Ah, yes. Snidgets may go extinct, but the vibrating ones will never die."

It was a precarious ascent. As we climbed higher, the steps at our feet grew fewer in frequency and narrower in length. By the time we reached the top step, I was sweaty and out of breath. It seemed a joke, then, that instead of a landing or a passageway, all that stood before us was a ladder that led upward at a ninety-degree angle through a canvas-covered square hole in the ceiling.

"You've got to be kidding me," I muttered.

Thorne laughed. "Welcome to the Jumble, kiddo. It's, you know..." she trailed off.

"A jumble?"

"Exactly."

The room we climbed into was small and cramped. A rickety table sat in its center, and a large window shaped like an eye consumed most of the ceiling. Behind the table sat a man I could only assume was Clinky. He had a waspish face, wispy trails of stubble, and large, round glasses that made his eyes bulge outward like a bug.

Stacks of paper sat around him. Some were piled so high they climbed right to the ceiling. This didn’t seem like a man who entertained visitors. It didn't escape my notice that there was _no_ fire in the h e a r th, _no_ chairs to sit on, and only a single entryway that led from the room into an adjacent hallway filled with murky shadow.

"Cho." Clinky had a hilariously high voice. "You have failed me."

"Aw," said Thorne, "don't be like that, Clinky, I know you're happy to see me. It's been, what, months?"

"You are mold."

"I know, _that's_ why you can't get rid of me."

I felt... awkward. Out of place.

I was standing in the corner because... I didn't know where else to go. Clinky still had not looked up from his papers. Thorne looked utterly at ease — but then again, Thorne thrived on chaos. She welcomed trouble, and on days like today, actively encouraged it.

A hand on my shoulder — Cho.

"Follow me."

_You don't need to tell me twice._

I tapped Thorne on the shoulder as Cho pulled me into the hallway. "I'm just going to — "

She waved a hand, clearly not listening. "Have fun, shortie."

The farther down the hallway we walked, the darker it became.

"Sorry," said Cho apologetically. "I know it's dark. It's usually only me here, and I know my way around. Hang on a sec. I'll get us some light."

She jumped and the darkness swallowed her whole.

 _Thud._ Her feet connected with metal.

 _Crunch._ A latch was pulled.

 _Creak._ Rusty hinges swung outward.

Ridged copper walls, string lights draped across the ceiling, a wireless radio in the corner, clothes strewn across an unmade mattress. It was Cho’s bedroom.

"Don't mind the mess." Cho pointed to the end of the container where afternoon sun flooded in. "Wait over there, will you? I need to change."

There was a small drop between the hallway and Cho’s bedroom. I judged the distance carefully, not wanting to eat shit in front of a total stranger, but at the last second, I chickened out, sat on the ledge, and eased myself down.

Cho sounded amused. "Not a jumper, are you?"

"You have no idea."

I sat at the end of the container, my feet dangling in empty air. Sharp peaks splayed below me, the bristling thistles of an eternally green forest. Beyond the green, lay white, a great mountain drenched by snow, and further still, way off in the distance, past the blue horizon, was the sea. The landscape rotated as the shipping container turned. It was peaceful and soothing, a diorama that existed only for me.

A moment later, Cho sat next to me. She wore a collared shirt, unbuttoned half-way. Up close, her tattoo looked _alive_ , a swirling mass of ink that stretched from navel, to stomach, to chest.

"Tits or tattoo?"

My gaze snapped up. Color flooded my cheeks. "Sorry. Tattoo. I've just... never seen one like it before."

Cho gave me a look. "They aren't _that_ uncommon, you know."

"Err — I'm... uh... still new in town."

"Aren't you a little old to be...?" Cho trailed off.

I sighed and pushed back my fringe to show her my scar.

“Ah,” said Cho. “Gotcha. It’s called a Web of Chastity. Have you heard the story of Chastity and Bartholomew?” 

I shook my head.

Cho leaned against one of the container doors and propped a leg up. “You know, it’s funny. When I was kid, I had little interest in learning how things worked. Wasn’t the curious type. Very concerned with what lay above because everything down below just seemed... uninteresting. Too crude, too dirty, too... in the middle. Took a lot at face value.”

She sighed, gazing into the distance. “Britain has an interesting history with things that lie beneath. Hard for us to agree on the way things should work. The first spellbook that we know of was published around twelve hundred years ago by a wizard named Bartholomew Goshawk. Smart guy, _curious_ guy, maybe too curious. Decided all spells ought to be derived from Latin because Latin was the most elegant of all languages. Or it was to his ears, anyway. What followed was a great purge. Four thousand years of knowledge... gone. Burnt. 

“Bartholomew was a god, so... who could stop him? Turns out, the only person who could was his betrothed, only she didn’t know that. Chastity was her name. Extraordinary in her own right, but not... European — not the way Bartholomew was, you understand — and in her... _arrogance_ , she sided against Bartholomew in the civil war that broke out.”

“A civil war broke out over a book?” I asked. 

“Magic is our most fundamental form of expression,” said Cho seriously. “Bartholomew’s purge erased not only knowledge, but... identity. It’s a fundamental thing, you know. Imagine being told you had to change whole parts of yourself because it wasn’t _elegant_ enough for someone you’d never met. People have a right to their identity.”

“So what happened to them?”

“They lost,” said Cho dispassionately. “According to the tale I was told, the conflict ended because Chastity grew weary of the violence she had caused. She went to Bartholomew and repented. As a… _gift_ , she created Chastity’s Web, and cast it on herself. In doing so, she brought peace, and this peace was formalized in the formation of the first Wizard’s Council with Bartholomew Goshawk at its helm.

“It’s symbolic, of course, because it represents putting the needs of the collective above the needs of the individual. The moral of the story is that Chastity was redeemed because she had that realization. She’s a symbol of humility. Had she persisted in the struggle against Bartholomew, who knows what would have happened?”

Cho’s face smoothed over like sand, wiped clean of all expression. “When my parents first told me that story, I didn’t give it much thought. It just seemed like one of those stories, you know? Course now I understand it better. Now I see — ”

Cho stopped. Her thin eyebrows narrowed and met. She tilted her head to the side, deliberating. After a moment, she gave a little nod, unbuttoned her shirt, and folded it neatly on the ground beside her. 

"So... it starts here" — she bent forward, her sleek black hair falling in curtains around her face — "at the base of my neck. Then it moves" — she traced down her shoulder, under her armpit, between her bra — "and flares" — she showed me how the interlocking pattern widened around her stomach — "and then it narrows again when it goes... further south."

"That looks, uh... pretty intense,” I said.

Cho pulled her shirt back on and buttoned it all the way up to the collar. "Yeah... that's one word for it. No one knows how to undo the spell because, ironically, it wasn’t cast in latin, and we burned all knowledge of what magic was like before we cast spells in latin, so we have no way of undoing it. All we can do is _perform it_.”

“What...” I trailed off. "Sorry — I don't want to be rude."

Cho shook her head slightly. “Chastity’s Web is a curse that goes away once you’ve fulfilled it’s requirements which, in this case, is to produce a child with someone the caster of the spell specifies. It’s a magical contract, and if the recipient breaks it by being... _unchaste_ , they die. In the wizarding world, when you see someone with a Web of Chastity, it means they’re... owned by someone. I can only imagine that when I told my parents I was gay, they decided I needed some... incentive to continue on our bloodline and” — her lips curled — “ _make the right choice_ for the success of our family.” 

I didn't know what to say.

"Uh... that seriously sucks." 

_Nice one, Harry,_ I thought. _Real articulate._

"I'm not good with... the whole talking thing,” I said. “But, uh... I don't care. I mean, it's not the same thing, and I'm not claiming it is, but I have a brand, too. So, we've got that in common."

Before I thought better of it, I turned and raised the back of my shirt to show her my back. It was a mess — a mottled mix of poorly healed scars. Cho whistled.

"I know. It's not pretty," I said as I lowered my shirt back down again. "Got all of them in the muggle world."

"What was... that circle with a line running through it."

"Honestly, I have no idea," I said. "Wish I did, trust me. It's just what, I dunno, what they branded me with. They did it, uh, in the foster home I was in."

Cho was silent for a moment. Then she slugged me on the shoulder.

"What was that for?" I squawked.

"That was a friendship punch."

"It didn't feel friendly."

"That's because you weren't the one doing it."

"Well, it hurt."

"You're _such_ a kid."

"I'm fifteen," I said indignantly.

"I'm _twenty-three_ ," responded Cho. "That makes you a kid."

"Well, fine, you're old then."

She slugged me on the shoulder again. The woman could _really_ punch.

"Don't call me old."

"Don't call me a kid."

"But you _are_ a kid."

I wrinkled my face at her, and she flicked me.

"Why," I asked, "does everyone do that?"

Cho shrugged. "I saw Thorne do it earlier. It looked fun."

We continued to talk as the afternoon rolled into evening. Cho was strong and serious with long, dexterous fingers that were always fiddling with something. Perhaps most impressively, she was wicked smart — one of the smartest people I had ever met. When she spoke about doohickeys, she got a real intense look on her face because, according to her, "doohickeys weren't something to mess around with."

"They're meant to perform a single task that isn't complicated," she explained. "If you wanted, you could build a doohickey that scrubbed a pot like a sponge. But what you _couldn't_ do is get it to scrub the pot _and_ wring itself out. If you wanted to do both, you'd build something called a whatchamacallit, which are _multiple_ doohickeys plus a mechanism to trigger them."

"Sounds complicated."

"Complicated,” agreed Cho, “ _but_ useful. The enchantments on doohickeys are bound to the item's construction, so they have a longer shelf life than _normal_ enchanted objects. Snitches can last for _years_."

Cho told me about the latest project she was working on: a miniature rooster head that crowed when you stroked its plumage.

"Why in the world would you make something like that?" I asked.

"There's a basilisk somewhere near Paris that's wrecking untold havoc on the unicorn population that lives there. Their Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures hired us because they want to shepherd it into containment." She rolled her eyes. "The French are such conservationists."

"But why would a basilisk be afraid of a rooster?"

"Dummy. You need some basic education on magical creatures. The cry of a rooster is fatal to a basilisk. Of course, the doohickey I'm making won't be fatal to it because it's not the real thing. But... it'll make any basilisk or lesbian run for the hills."

"Why would a lesbian be scared of a rooster?"

Cho stared at me for a long moment, and then she slugged me. “You're _such_ a kid."

Night had fallen when Thorne came to fetch me. More specifically, she screamed to get my attention.

"Shortie! Time to split!"

I looked down. "Why is she all the way down there?"

"She left a while ago," said Cho. "Went to check up on some of the things Clinkey told her."

"Oh, okay. Could you show me the way down?"

"I could," said Cho as she got up, "but I think this way would be faster."

"What — " I began to ask, but I never finished because Cho's foot connected with my back and _pushed_ me off the ledge. Suddenly, the shipping crate was above me, and I was in freefall.

_Holy. Fuck._

_This is it. I'm going to die._

The ground zoomed up to meet me.

I screwed my eyes shut and curled into a ball, waiting for a crunch followed by blissful nothingness. I had been killed, and I wasn't even expecting it. I was only fifteen! I was going to die without ever casting a single spell. I was —

I opened my eyes and found myself hovering three inches from the ground. "I'm not dead," I mumbled.

"That," said Thorne, "was the _funniest_ shit I've ever seen. Your face."

"I hate wizards," I whispered. "I hate magic, and I hate you most of all."

"Oh, come on, shortie." Thorne ended her spell, and I flopped onto the ground. "Get up. We've gotta split."

I shook my head.

"Cho wouldn't have pushed you if she thought were in any danger."

"That's not comforting," I mumbled.

"Okay, how about this. If you get up right now and come home, I'll make you beef stew for dinner."

I lifted my head suspiciously. "...how much beef stew?"

"Literally. So much."

I pushed myself up, and we started walking back to the apparition point. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

Thorne's voice hardened. "Yes. Unfortunately."

"...and?"

"The government in France is Light-Aligned right now, but there's a militant group of Dark wizards who are gaining an alarming amount of influence and support. I can't find much about them other than a letter — R. If they get into power... it’s bad news for us.”

“How come?” I asked.

Thorne tapped her chin. “It’s complicated. Has a lot to do with how Britain rigs the NEWTs to keep Light-Aligned families out of work. A ton of them work in France because their government is sympathetic to our plight. If that were to stop… it could be devastating.”

"So... what does that mean?"

"It means that I need to have a meeting with the French Minister of Magic. It means that _you_ need to be extra careful. It means that... you and I will be going to France. Soon."

_France, huh?_

"Sure, why not."

* * *

 **THE NEXT DAY WAS A MILESTONE.** Thirty one days in the wizarding world; thirty one days of practicing magic; thirty one days where I tried, and failed, to make a feather levitate to the ceiling. It was, perhaps unsurprisingly, a frustrating day.

“This is hopeless.” I threw the rubber chicken down in disgust. “I’m never going to get this right.”

From her position atop the kitchen counter, Thorne gave me a wry smile. “Go on, try again. Make the _gar_ nice and long.”

“You do it,” I said. “It’s not even a real wand.”

Thorne rolled her eyes, pushed off the counter, and walked over to the kitchen table. “Stop being dramatic,” she said. With both hands, she grabbed the rubber chicken, and brandished it like a sword.

_Swish and flick!_

“Wingardium Leviosa.”

The feather rose, gliding gracefully right up to the ceiling. I frowned. In that moment, it felt like the feather was mocking me.

“Mon poulet,” said Thorne in a soft voice. She brought the chicken to her breast and stroked its badly painted plumage. “Mon _amour_ ,” she whispered.

“Oh, just give it to me,” I snapped.

“Let’s go over it again.”

“I don’t need to go over it again,” I growled. “It’s been a month and — _stop laughing at me_!”

Thorne’s eyes twinkled and she turned away to hide her smile. “You’re right, Harry. A month is a _very_ long time to work on something. Why don’t you come with me?”

Behind Thorne’s house was a vast swath of plowed land. Neat rows of vegetation led away from a centralized point, branching outward at progressively steeper angles to form a conical curve. Five pumpkins stood at the far end of this formation, large enough for three grown men to fit inside. The vegetation branched into them, _inside_ them, as if each line was a vein and each pumpkin, a heart. 

Daphne stood in front of the largest pumpkin, wand outstretched. The hard, barren light of afternoon blasted down, reducing her features to little more than blurred white ice and flyaway blonde hair. Compared to the obelisk of orange that loomed behind her, Daphne seemed small and feeble, a ladybug crawling on the face of a much larger pumpkin.

“Watch,” said Thorne as Daphne dug her wand down and jerked it back up.

“ _Arx Nix_.” 

Thick, grey mist oozed from Daphne’s wand, spilling forth to coat the ground in morning dew. The mist coalesced, forming six individual streams that bubbled, rose, and finally… dissipating into nothingness. Daphne kicked a piece of butternut squash. “Fucking — god damnit!”

Thorne gave me a meaningful look. “See? Other people struggle with spells too. Let’s go investigate further, shall we?” 

“I don’t think — ” I began.

“Nonsense,” said Thorne grandly. “If there’s one thing I know about Daphne, it’s that she _loves_ answering questions about her own shortcomings. This way.”

As we approached, Daphne’s hollow grey eyes narrowed. “What’s _he_ doing here?”

“Hello emo queen,” said Thorne in a voice bright and chipper. “I must say, you look resplendent in that wrinkled shirt. Not many can make unlaundered clothes work for them, but you my dear, are the exception.”

Daphne wore the same thing every day: a collared button-up and grey trousers, both of which were three sizes too big. A worn leather belt adorned her waist, cinching her shirt against her narrow waist. The result looked childish, like Daphne was a mouse in human clothing, with her shirt sleeves rolled up five times and the bottom of her pants frayed from where they continuously dragged across the ground. 

Thorne smiled indulgently. “You’re probably wondering why we’re here.”

“I’m not.”

“Well, I’ll tell you.” Thorne clapped me on the back. “Young Harry here is still having trouble with his first spell, and I thought it would do him good to learn he isn’t alone in the struggle.”

“Yes, because the levitation charm is _such_ a difficult spell.”

That was Daphne — cold, uncaring, sarcastic bordering on cruel. Since my arrival, she had not said a single kind word to me. I knew because, in the beginning, I’d _searched_ for reasons to like her. She was indifferent to the world, indifferent to the people around her, indifferent to everyone except… me.

“Come on, emo queen.” Thorne had a way of handling Daphne that defied my understanding. “Play nice. How long have you been trying to learn the Ice Fortress spell?”

Daphne’s lip curled. “As fun as this is, I think I’m going to go.” She turned and slouched back towards the house.

Thorne’s hand rose. “ _Stupefy._ ” The raised stitches on the underside of her forearm glowed crimson and a bolt of red light erupted from her fingertips.

Daphne’s wand moved so quickly it was little more than a blur. “ _Protego_ ,” she said, and the air before her shimmered like light against cellophane. Thorne’s spell hit and rebounded. 

A rainbow flew between them, and I retreated back a safe distance to watch.

_“Expelliarmus!”_

_“Protego!”_

_“Reducto!”_

_“Protego!”_

Thorne pointed at the ground. _“Mergo.”_

With a startled yelp, Daphne sunk into the ground as the soil at her feet became soft and wet. Now submerged all the way to her waist, she struggled, trying to break free, but her efforts only succeeded in making the mud climb higher up her chest.

Thorne’s eyes twinkled. “ _Palmis Faciem_.” Her finger twitched, and Daphne smacked herself in the face. Another twitch, another smack. Thorne looked over her shoulder at me and winked. “I call this one, why are you hitting yourself.” Another twitch, another smack.

I started to laugh. It was the most ridiculous thing I’d ever seen. At the sound of my voice, Daphne’s head snapped towards me. She went very still, and though she continued to hit herself, her eyes bore into mine. Hungry and cornered, her lips peeled back in an angry snarl.

The spell she cast ripped summer from the air, leaving naught but ravaging winter in its wake. The temperature plummeted. The ground cracked and froze. Ice spread outward from Daphne’s hips, ravaging the fertile land in a plague of parasitic ice. My breath whooshed out, oddly visible in the frigid afternoon air. With a single strike, Daphne rent the frozen ground apart and stepped out of the hole Thorne had imprisoned her within. She took a step forward. I took a step back. Her eyes never left mine, and I couldn’t look away. 

“ _Glaco Fligis_ ,” said Daphne, and a jagged spear of ice erupted from the tip of her wand. With a flick, she sent it sailing towards me. The air whistled. My breath whooshed out. I dived. The spear catapulted above my head, impaled the pumpkin behind me, and with a crack, froze it clean through.

“Daphne, no!” said Thorne.

They started to duel in earnest. Thorne’s face was a mask, expressionless except for her eyes, which gleamed. No matter what spell Daphne cast, Thorne did not strike back. Her movements, at once calm and precise, were methodical, and it took me a second to realize she was actively holding herself back. Her face wasn’t one of concentration, but of self-control. 

A turning point came two minutes into the duel. One of Daphne’s spells, a groping hand of jagged ice, grazed Thorne’s side, forcing her back for the first time since they started. The dark ridges beneath Daphne’s eyes turned so dark they were almost black. “Are you going to attack me now?” she asked. Her breathing, now labored, made her gauntness seem deeper, almost wraith-like.

Thorne sighed. “You, emo girl, are that person no one wants to bring to the party because they get too into it. You go from zero to a hundred so fast I — ”

Daphne raised her wand. “ _Gla_ —”

But she never finished her spell because Thorne was faster. A bolt of red light left her fingertips — _no incantation_ , I noted idly — and sped toward Daphne faster than ever before. When it hit, Daphne’s wand flew out of her hand, sailed across the garden, and landed in Thorne’s outstretched palm. 

“You and your ice spells,” said Thorne. “I keep telling you, you can’t beat the basics. Nine times out of ten, a disarming charm will beat any complicated spell you cast. Until you can cast your spells nonverbally, you’ll be too slow.”

Daphne stuck her hands in her pockets with a sullen look, and when Thorne walked over to return her wand, she mumbled something that made Thorne laugh. “Now, now,” she said, using the same tone of voice she’d used earlier in the kitchen, “no need for that kind of talk. It was impressive spell work — honestly, it was.”

Daphne said something else.

“Now you’re just being dramatic,” said Thorne. She threw an arm around Daphne’s shoulders and they started to walk toward me.

I watched them approach with weary trepidation. I didn’t like Daphne much — she walked around like she had the market cornered on shitty childhoods, and as someone who had a pretty shit childhood himself, I found her assumption arrogant and more than a little bit presumptive. 

“Well,” said Thorn, “now that both of you have had a good tantrum, perhaps you can stop being so angsty and start listening to me. Daphne, tell Harry how long you’ve been working on the Ice Fortress spell.”

Daphne stuffed her hands in her pockets. “I don’t — ”

“Daphne.”

“Fine,” growled Daphne. “Seven years.

“And so,” said Thorne loudly, reaching the point she’d been trying to get to all along, “you see, Harry, a month really isn’t all that long to work on a spell in the first place.”

“Great,” I said dryly. “Thanks.”

Typical Thorne — no impulse control whatsoever. Instead of just _explaining_ the concept to me, she’d chosen to demonstrate it in the grandest way she could think of, almost destroying her garden in the process. 

Daphne coughed. “Well, this was fun. Can I go now?”

“Absolutely not,” said Thorne. “There is still the matter of my garden. We need to get more pumpkin carriages.”

That got my attention.

“Sorry — what’s a pumpkin carriage?” I asked.

“Wizards grow all their food inside of pumpkins,” said Thorne. “They’re organic incubators, you see. They transport magic from the earth to our food and, eventually, to us. Hence, pumpkin carriages.”

Daphne’s lip curled. “Wow, this lesson is fascinating. ” 

“I’m glad you think so,” said Thorne, “because tomorrow, you and Harry are going to get new seeds.”

It was silent for a moment.

“I don’t want — ”

“I’m not taking — ”

“ _Nope_ !” said Thorne airily. “I shan’t change my mind. This is a _reward_ , kiddos, for all your hard work. A field trip, how exciting for you.”

“You can’t honestly — ”

“He’s only going to be — ”

“Oh, will you look at the time,” said Thorne as she checked her watch-less wrist. “I’ve got somewhere to be. Aha, how awkward. I’ll just — ” She turned on her heel, and disapparated with a loud crack. 

In the silence that followed, me and Daphne stared at each other.

“Don’t give me that look, I’m not happy about this either,” I said. 

“Speak for yourself,” said Daphne. “A day on the town with the Boy-Who-Lived? Oh good golly gosh, whatever shall I wear?”

As one, we turned and started traipsing back to Thorne’s house. The remains of a once fertile garden lay around us, shattered past recognition by frozen pieces of splintered ice. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Beta’d by Jarizok. 
> 
> [2] Because there's no Hogwarts, the world of this story is much more open than in canon. Therefore, it makes little sense to maintain a hogwarts-age-range for all the characters because they aren't confined to a setting where their age matters. If a character's age differs from canon, they'll say it explicitly like Cho did.


	6. Burdens Borne Of Frost And Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: depictions of body horror / mutilation

**DAPHNE WAS NOT AS GOOD AT SIDE-ALONG APPARITION AS THORNE.** The moment we landed, I staggered forward, bumped against a tree, fell backwards, turned over, swore, and vomited. 

Daphne sniggered. “That’s embarrassing for you.”

“It’s not my fault you’re bad at this,” I grumbled.

“Oh, gee. Was the journey not smooth enough for you? Hold on tight next time, ‘kay?”

“I’ll just rub your head for good luck, shall I?”

“Do that, and I bite your fingers off.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I said as I pushed myself up. “Sure you will. Let’s get this over with.”

Daphne led me through a grove of trees to the start of a narrow earthy path. As we traveled down it, the trees gave way and rolling fields of corn took their place. The path sloped up, and when we reached the apex of its ascent, it plateaued, becoming level for a time, until finally dropping into a lush valley kissed by sunlight.

An enormous hedge bisected this valley. It stood ten feet high and swirled with vine-like tendrils that moved in, around, and on top of each other like the tentacles of an enormous green octopus. Row upon row of pumpkins lay behind it, sloping up the far side of the valley wall. They were massive, organized in no particular fashion, and each one glowed so richly in the afternoon light, they looked a color closer to gold than orange. A river stood in the distance near the mouth of the valley, and past this river were still more pumpkins, but these ones were larger than those protected by the hedge — they must have been larger than Thorne’s house! 

As we neared the end of the earthy path, a large sign became visible that read “POMONA’S PATCH: PICK PERFECT PUMPKINS” and below this sign was a large silver bell that looked too enticing _not_ to ring.

“Do we ring it?” I asked Daphne.

Her response was predictably caustic. “No, it’s just there for show.” But, all the same, she stepped forward and rang the little bell.

A great shiver ran through the maze. All the vine-like tendrils stopped swirling and turned toward us. A wave erupted through the greenery. Leaf upon leaf, vine upon vine, the hedge crawled outward, revealing a narrow pathway just large enough to walk through. 

“Try to be useful for once in your life,” said Daphne, “and let me do the talking.” 

I made a face at her. “Gladly,” I said.

When we reached the other side of the hedge, a shabby wooden booth came into view. Behind it sat a woman who was short and stout, with wiry grey hair, and a magnificent patched hat. She was in the middle of a conversation with a man who seemed too big to be allowed. He had furious red hair, a bushy red beard inlaid with yellow flowers, great red cheeks that were rosy and full, and a booming Scottish voice that reached us clearly even though we were still a good few feet away. 

“This is important Pomona,” he said.

“I’m sorry, Thomas,” said Pomona. “Times are tight, and I won’t have you scaring away my customers.”

Thomas’s face darkened like the cloud of an incoming storm. “Corban Yaxley isn’t the type of customer you — ”

“No!” said Pomona. “No, I don’t want to hear it. Your article upset a great number of people, Thomas. We can’t be associated with the kind of riffraff you want to bring.”

“I just need a picture of — ”

“I forbid it!” Pomona puffed herself up to the intimidating height of four-feet-eleven-inches. “You are undermining people’s confidence in pumpkins everywhere! I’m sorry my friend, but you have to go.”

Thomas said a word that was very rude, turned on his heel, and stomped toward the entrance. 

“Does it hurt knowing you’re still the shortest person here?” I asked as we approached the booth.

Daphne opened her mouth, but Pomona forestalled her response by saying, “Morning. Lovely day, isn’t it?”

“…yes,” said Daphne who sounded thoroughly put out. “We’d like — ”

“Ahhh.” Pomona tapped her temple knowingly. “Young love. I know the type. Here for your first pumpkin, are you?”

Daphne bristled, annoyed, and I thought it was the funniest thing I’d ever seen. It was why I stepped forward, cut her response off mid-stream, and said, “We’re a little nervous. Just married you see, but so in love. Right, ducky?”

Daphne’s eyes promised cold murder, but she said, “…yes.”

Pomona made a sound of delight. “It’s a big step, no doubt about it, but with Pomona, you’re in safe hands. Young love is always celebrated in the patch because pumpkins are about love.”

“See?” I said as Pomona bustled from the booth to give us a tour. “There was nothing to worry about, ducky. The nice lady will help us find everything we need. Pomona, you are a lifesaver!”

“What are you doing?” hissed Daphne as Pomona prattled on about pumpkins. 

I smiled a satisfied smile. “I’m trying to not be — how did you put it? — oh, that’s right, useless.” I knew I was provoking her, but honestly, I didn’t care. I so rarely had any opportunity to get Daphne back for _everything_ she said to me.

“You’ll be wanting a family sized pumpkin, then?” asked Pomona. 

“Oh, yes,” I said in my most grown-up voice. “Definitely family sized. Four of them, if you please.” 

“Ah!” swooned Pomona. “A large family then. Wonderful, wonderful. I must know, how did you two dears meet? The Reformation Act, perhaps?”

I didn’t know what the Reformation Act was, so I decided to play it safe. “Just plain old love, I’m afraid. What can I say? I’m a traditionalist. Why don’t you tell the story, ducky?”

“I really couldn’t,” said Daphne through a clenched jaw. 

“Oh, but I insist,” cried Pomona, “you must! Bit of a busybody, I am. Not much excitement selling pumpkins, so I have to live vicariously.”

I grabbed Daphne’s hand. “Go on, ducky,” I said. 

Daphne’s nails dug into my flesh hard enough to draw blood. “Okay,” she said sweetly. Then, in a louder voice, she continued by saying, “When I was adopted, I was a magic-less little runt who was a burden on everyone I came into contact with.”

That comment wiped the smile right off my face.

“Oh…” said Pomona. “How… how nice.”

“I don’t think — ” I began to say, but Daphne cut me off.

“No, really, ducky, it’s just getting to the good part. You see, my parents died when I was one because I was too useless to save them. So, I spent all my time begging and begging everyone to love me because I was too weak and magic-less to do anything for myself. When I met Harry, I thought: gosh, maybe I can finally replace the parents I was too weak to save.”

I saw red. 

“Goodness,” said Pomona. “Well, I say — ”

“My parents died when I was little too,” I said. 

“Oh dear!” squeaked Pomona.

“Yeah, it’s really tragic.” My eyes bore into Daphne’s. “Of course, my life’s been pretty great otherwise, but hey, why focus on the positives? It’s easier to be cold and cruel so no one will ever hurt me. It’s not like anyone wants to be around me anyway. I’m not brave or strong or kind because beneath all my bravado, I’m nothing but a scared little — ”

 _Wham!_ Daphne slapped me clean across the face with such force I saw stars. I rubbed my jaw, stunned. Where did she get off — I wheeled around, trying to find her, but she was gone.

“Well now.” Pomona puffed herself up, bristling with indignation, “I don’t know what sort of woman you take me for, but pumpkin carriages” — she let out a choked sob — “are about love! Today, the two of you have made a mockery of love, and I would like you to leave. Now.”

Oh shit. We didn’t have the seeds.

“Listen — ” I began.

“Leave.”

“But — ”

“ _Now!_ ”

It was unsurprising that Daphne left me stranded, but it still annoyed the living daylights out of me, and as the squirming hedge sealed shut behind me, I wondered how I was going to get home. Would Daphne tell Thorne she’d left me here? Seemed unlikely. Waiting around was a big risk to take.

The sun kissed valley splayed out before me, drenched in the haze orange-purple dusk. A river sparkled in the distance — now there was an idea. If I followed the river, I’d eventually find a town. I used to do it all the time when I was homeless. Yeah… that seemed like a plan.

 _“You should not have provoked her,”_ said Fleur as I started the long walk toward the river. 

_“She made it personal,”_ I grumbled.

_“You responded.”_

_“She left me here!”_

Fleur made a sound of disapproval. _“You pulled her pigtails.”_

A righteous bubble of anger swelled up within me. _“Pulled her pig — why are you taking her side?”_

 _“Because you have an exceedingly beautiful girl in your head and she does not.”_ Fleur sounded far too satisfied with herself. “ _Now, tell me how beautiful I am. Use many adjectives.”_

As I drew near the bank of the river, I stepped in the path of a great, sprawling shadow. I looked up, up, up. The pumpkins on the opposite bank were titanic. They were thirty feet high, twenty feet across, and were planted in a crumbling rock-like compound of shiny black stones. They glowed yellow in the center, orange in the middle, and deep red along the edges. I couldn’t imagine what someone would grow in something so big. 

A flash of light caught my eye. I turned. 

Thomas was standing a little ways down, taking pictures of the pumpkins. When I approached, he looked up. “There were two of you last I saw,” he said.

“Yeah. Err. She left without me.”

“Good riddance,” grunted Thomas. “Nothing but trouble that one is.”

“You know her?” I asked.

“I do.” Thomas extended a massive hand toward me. Small strands of red hair sprouted below each of his knuckles. “Thomas Abbott. Pleasure.”

I nodded and shook his hand. “You were at the auction.”

“Aye. I reported on it. Was quite a show.”

“For the _Daily Prophet_?”

“Bah!” roared Thomas in a voice so loud I jumped. _“_ Not the _Prophet_ . I have more integrity than that. No, boy, the _Liberator_.”

“Oh. Thorne reads that.”

Thomas’s voice was smug. “Everyone who cares for truth reads the _Liberator_. We don’t pander in the partisan politics of Dark and Light.”

“And you’re… reporting on something here?”

“Aye,” said Thomas. “There’s a shortage of pumpkins, you see.”

It didn’t look that way from where I was standing, but that didn’t seem polite to say, so I just nodded.

 _Flash!_ Thomas took another picture. “It always seems unlikely we’ll run out during harvest time, but come winter, there’s never enough to go around. The earth won’t yield what we need to survive, so the Yaxleys are trying to grow year round.” His voice darkened. “It’s unnatural. You can see it in the color, the grading, the mud. Magic should not take the place of nature.” He straightened and slung the camera around his neck. “You’d best be hurrying along little Potter. The perversion of magic is a sad thing. Best avoid those who do it.”

“Err — thanks,” I said.

Thomas’s bushy red eyebrow met in the middle. “Do you have a way back to Thorne?”

“Uhm.” I wasn’t sure if I wanted help from this strange, loud man. “I was just going to walk to a mate I have down the way.”

“Walk?” Thomas laughed a big booming laugh. “There’s nothing in that direction but trees and turkey and more trees. Are you sure you don’t need help? Night is falling and it won’t do to roam these lands alone, especially for you, especially if you’re unprotected, especially” — his voice dropped to a whisper — “when you’re so near the Yaxleys.”

“No, it’s fine, really,” I said. “Thank you, though, I appreciate — ”

“Harry!”

I turned. Thorne was walking toward us, still a ways off, but getting closer every minute.

“That your friend, then?” asked Thomas in a bemused voice.

Heat flooded my cheeks. “Err — sorry.”

“You’re a cautious lad,” said Thomas, not unkindly. “I respect that. Suppose I can hardly blame you for being cautious.”

Thorne’s voice was warm when she reached us. “Thomas, it’s good to see you!”

Thomas’s response was cold and clipped. “Thorne. The Greengrass girl left him here all alone.”

“Well,” said Thorne, “What’s done is done. Let’s move on, shall we?”

“That girl is trouble,” growled Thomas.

“Yes, yes,” said Thorne, sounding slightly annoyed now, “you’ve made your feelings about Daphne perfectly clear. Come, Harry.” She turned on her heel without another word, and started back to the apparition point. 

I looked between Thorne’s retreating back and Thomas — there was something strange between them; old history, perhaps. “It was nice meeting you,” I said. “I hope your article goes well.”

Thomas Abbott inclined his head, and without another word, I scampered up the path to join Thorne. We walked in silence. Uncharacteristic silence. Thorne’s face was drawn, and looked paler than usual. It took me a moment to realize it was because she was upset — upset with _me_.

A hot flash of annoyance tore through me. Why was it that Daphne could attack me with impunity however she wanted, whenever she wanted, and the one time I responded in kind, everyone treated me like a bad guy? _Well, fine_ , I thought petulantly. _If Thorne isn’t going to bring it up, I’m not going to either. She can stew for all I care._

But, of course, Thorne did bring it up. She was just waiting for the right time, and when we apparated from the pumpkin patch to her kitchen, I found out why. Daphne was waiting for us, sitting sullenly in one of the chairs around the table. 

“Sit,” she said, and I sat. It was silent for a moment. 

“You know it’s somewhat astonishing how badly the two of you mucked this up.” Thorne made a frustrated sound. “Not only did you embarrass yourselves and me, but you also didn’t get the pumpkin seeds I asked for. Now we’re going to have to buy all our food, and that’s an expensive luxury.” 

Her voice turned cold. “Daphne, leave us.”

I heard Daphne’s chair scoot back, but I didn’t look up. For a long time after she left, it was silent. Thorne sat down, but she didn’t say anything. I didn’t know what she was waiting for, but I wasn’t going to break the silence. If she wanted to be unreasonable, she could do it at her own pace. 

Thorne fiddled with her ring. The wizened half of her face, the female half, looked older than I’d ever seen it. She sighed. “I must admit, I expected better from you, Harry.”

My temper flared. “But she — ”

“And?” Thorne raised an eyebrow. “Does that excuse your behavior?”

“ _Thorne_. She takes every opportunity to — ”

“So?”

“So,” I ground out, “why are you acting like I’m the only person who’s done something wrong here?”

“I’m not,” said Thorne.

My voice rose. “Why isn’t she here, then? You’re not telling _her_ you expected better.”

Thorne nodded. “That’s true.”

“She left me there today, Thorne!” My voice rose, almost to a shout. “And yesterday, she almost killed me. That spell would have — ”

“Do you really have so little faith in my ability to protect you?” asked Thorne.

“That’s not the point,” I snarled. “You didn’t say anything to her — _nothing_! Did you not care? Is she really that much more important than — ”

Thorne gave me a sour look. “You know that’s not true.”

“Do I? _Hey, let’s have Harry wave a rubber fucking chicken around so we can all have a good laugh. Hey, let’s have Daphne wail on Harry because he’ll eventually have to fight someone worse_. God knows defeating the Dark Lord is all you care about, so why not just — ”

Thorne slammed her hand down on the table. Her eyes flashed, burning with fire, and a palpable aura of power surrounded her. I shrunk back into my seat as her face twisted and crawled, the male half of her face overtaking the female, until it seemed she was no longer a woman, but a man. 

Thorne swelled, and a thrum of power burst forth from her over-long too-thin arms. I felt it, her anger, like a physical presence that filled the whole house with fire. The lights flickered. A window, the one above the sink, splintered and cracked. And then, just as quickly as it came, the anger vanished. Thorne swayed, looking old and tired as her face returned to its original orientation. She closed her eyes, leaned her elbows on the table, and took a deep breath. 

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” she said in a voice of disconcerting calm, “because it was either thoughtless or cruel, and I’d rather not know which one it was.” She paused. “I understand you feel hard done by and that you’ve had to deal with a lot lately. It’s the only reason I’ve indulged your little tantrum up to this point. But now, that’s over.” Her voice hardened. “It’s time to be an adult.”

I crossed my arms, sullenly staring at the table. “Fine.”

Thorne opened her eyes. “I’d like you to answer a question. Why did you decide to provoke Daphne today?”

“Dunno,” I said.

“Yes. You. Do.”

“What do you want me to say?” I snapped. “I egged her on cause I thought it was funny. I did it because she tried to kill me. It’s my fault and I won’t do it again.”

“Any of those answers would be fine,” said Thorne, “if they were true. You see, I have a theory about what happened.” She leaned toward me, hazel eyes twinkling. “I think you feel frustrated about your magical progress. I think you’re jealous of Daphne. I think… you decided to provoke her, not out of anger or retribution, but so that you could control something.”

I drew in a shaky breath. “Yeah, alright, fine, but — ”

“There are times,” said Thorne, cutting across me, “when we have to choose between what is right, and what is easy. Today, you chose what was easy.”

Frustration bubbled past my lips. “You’re still defending her? Why — ”

“Enough,” hissed Thorne, and I fell silent. “I’m not talking about Daphne. You’re the one who keeps bringing her up. What I said, if you remember, was: _I expected more from you._ And I do because — 

“Because of the prophecy,” I sneered. “Because I’m a god. Because — ”

“Because you’re capable of it,” said Thorne in a voice that fell like thunder. “Surely you’ve noticed that people are drawn to you, Harry. Ron, Blaise, Cedric, Cho, me, Fleur, and yes, even Daphne. It’s not because you’re a child of prophecy, but because _most of the time_ — when you’re not being an angsty little cretin — you’re empathetic and kind.”

“So I’m just supposed to love Daphne, am I?” I asked.

Thorne sighed. “No, Harry. You’re supposed to realize that what Daphne said about you was patently untrue, and what you said about her _was_. What’s worse is that you both knew it. Your struggles with magic don’t make me think less of you. It doesn’t make anyone think less of you. It is our choices, Harry, that matter far more than our ability.”

I shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know what to do then.”

“Look,” said Thorne. “Daphne isn’t easy — I know that. I’m not asking you to be friends with her. I’m not asking you to let her rip you apart. You can either help her or hurt her, the choice is yours. All I ask is that when you make that choice, you own its consequences because they will define you.” Her voice lowered, and became a reverent murmur. “Magic is our most fundamental form of expression.”

“Magic is our most fundamental form of expression,” I echoed.

A moment passed. Thorne fiddled with her ring. “You know, when I was young, I was…” — she shook her head — “so angry. We have similar pasts, me and Daphne. I see so much of myself in her, and I see so much of my brother in you. He would say things, stupid things, things only a boy would say, and I’d… I’d get so mad. Instantly mad. You do that to me, too.

“God, I hated him, maybe I still do, I don’t know. I…” — Thorne’s lips twitched in a smile — “and yet, the joke of the whole thing is that if I had to choose if I wanted you to be like him or me, I’d choose him. Harry, I…” — she hesitated, considering her next words carefully — “so much of your life has been rotten. More than most. You have every right to strike back at the people who hurt you. What I’m asking of you isn’t easy, but it is right.” 

She rose, looking old and tired. “If it’s any consolation, I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think you capable of shouldering the burden.” After that, she turned and left, leaving me alone in the kitchen.

* * *

 **THE NEXT MORNING, I WENT TO SEE DAPHNE.** I knocked on her door three times, and when it opened, I saw Daphne was still in her pajamas. Dark bruises lay beneath her eyes and pink burns dusted her face in a layer of fine freckles. 

“What.” 

“Uh, listen,” I said. “I’m… sorry about yesterday. I went too far. It was my bad.”

Daphne stared at me for a long moment, and then slammed the door in my face.

This event marked a new phase in our relationship. I called it “ _insult-the-shit-out-of-harry”_ and boy, was the name accurate. Over the next week, Daphne was relentless, never missing an opportunity to get a good dig in, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t get to me. Were it not for Thorne (who I didn’t want to disappoint), I would have clapped back at her — hard. 

The days blended together in a haze of rubber chickens, feathers, and fraying self-control. Before I knew it, six days had passed, and it was Tuesday once again. That afternoon, I was in the living room, practicing occlumency with Fleur, when Thorne waltzed in and said, “Today, you’re going to practice with me. I want to see how you’re coming along.”

It was… interesting.

_“Legilimens.”_

The sensation was familiar. _Tug, tug, tug,_ went the rope in my mind. 

_Oh,_ I thought, _hello Thorne._

I was expecting to fail, but I didn’t. After a month of practicing against Fleur, keeping Thorne out of my mind was... surprisingly manageable. Curiously, though, as she was attacking me, I noticed something new, something I’d never seen before: another rope, a new rope, Thorne’s rope.

It felt like a big red button that said, _“DO NOT TOUCH!”_

So, what did I do? I touched it. I pulled on the rope. How could I _not_ ? I was curious. The world twisted, turned, folded, and bent around me. Suddenly, I was in Thorne’s mind, but the rope was gone. Instead, there was a truth-seeker. _Spin, spin, spin,_ it went. 

_Well,_ I thought, _isn’t that interesting. Thorne’s mind is different from mine._

How did I get in? What was the game? What did I have to do to the truth-seeker? There was a logic to it, a puzzle that prevented me from entering. With a jolt, I realized it was _Thorne’s_ logic, and until I figured out what drove her, I wouldn’t be able to enter her mind.

 _Tug, tug, tug,_ went the rope around my waist.

I stared at it, annoyed. _Not now,_ I told it. _I’m busy._ But the rope had other ideas. _Twist, turn, fold, bend,_ went the world, and I was back in my mind, staring at Thorne, whose eyes were wide with surprise. 

“That,” she said, “was interesting. You’re pretty good at this, kiddo.”

I learned a valuable lesson that day. Everyone’s mind had a game — a logic puzzle — and if I solved it, I could bridge the gap between the outside world and their innermost thoughts. While I couldn’t perform the spell to enter someone’s mind myself, if they attacked me first, I could reverse that connection.

Fleur was rather affronted when I asked if I could see her logic game. _“I am too complicated for a single game,”_ she said in a proud, regal voice.

_“Okay. Show me.”_

_“Hmph!_ ” 

_“Is that a no?”_ I asked.

_“When you can enter my mind, you’ll see it for yourself.”_

_“So… never.”_

Fleur preened.

* * *

 **AN OWL CAME FOR ME THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON** — my first piece of wizarding mail ever. It was very exciting. 

_Hey kid,  
_ _I never apologized for kicking you off my balcony last week. Here’s a mirror so you can yell at me about it. It’s small enough to fit in your pocket, so make sure you don’t lose it. Hold it up to your face, speak my name, and I will appear. Cho-On-Demand.  
_ _\--C.C_

“Interesting,” said Thorne when I showed it to her. “You must have made a big impression. She’s not the friendly sort.”

“Should I... use it?” I asked. “I don’t want to bother her.”

“Oh, you should definitely use it. Nothing that girl does is accidental.” Thorne gave me a meaningful look. “She’s exceptionally skilled at charms.”

“Okay?”

“Harry, she’s useful.”

“So?”

Thorne shook her head. “You’re hopeless.”

When I called that night, Cho was in bed.

“Morning.”

“Uh...” I looked outside at the dark night sky. “It’s ten o’clock.”

“I wake up at ten and work at night.” Cho stretched, blinking sleepily. “It’s quieter that way. Say, why do you look so gloomy?”

Explaining it seemed exhausting, so I just shrugged and said, “It doesn’t matter. What are you working on today?”

Cho smiled and told me all about her golden-rooster-basilisk-scaring-doohickey. She had a slow, purposeful way of speaking and the more she spoke, the more relaxed she became. I learned a lot about the spell Duro — a charm that hardened the outer surface of a physical object. There was something familiar in Cho’s voice, something I recognized, a sense of... wonder, maybe? Yes, that was it. It was the same wonder I felt whenever I read about magic.

At a certain point, I must have fallen asleep because when I opened my eyes, it was morning, and the mirror was resting on my forehead. Cho was still there, still working, still talking, but at that point, it was more to herself than me. 

“Morning,” I said.

“Evening,” she replied.

* * *

 **THINGS WERE GOING WELL.** I mean, Daphne was awful and I still couldn’t perform magic, but apart from that, I really couldn’t complain. Life was settling into a routine, a routine that was sharply disrupted when Thorne handed me a letter during dinner on Thursday. 

It was a handsome piece of parchment with a rooster embossed on the back. The rooster’s beak lay open and a star hovered inside which bore the inscription: Le Coq Persiste.

“I’m leaving on Monday,” said Thorne. “Got the letter two days ago.”

I was still trying to figure out what “Le Coq Persiste” meant. 

“Sorry — what?”

“My visit to France, remember?” Thorne raised an eyebrow. “The blue-cloaks... the letter ‘R’... the extremist movement... ring any bells? I need to meet with their Minister to make sure everything is okay.”

“Oh, okay,” I said. “How long are we going to be gone?”

Daphne’s lip curled. “You’re not going, idiot _._ ”

“Hush,” said Thorne in a tone of voice that made Daphne hush. “Sorry, but… she’s right. You’re not coming this time. Travel out of Britain is restricted if you don’t have a visa. I have to go to France to set one up for you.”

“Oh.”

I went back to eating.

“How long?”

“A week.”

“Can I go with?” Daphne’s voice was babyish, mocking. “Pwease? I have a visa.”

“No,” said Thorne patiently, “you can’t. You need to hold down the fort.”

“So wonder boy won’t sob himself to death?”

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Daphne was trying to get a rise out of me, just like she always did. All I had to do was keep calm, sink into myself, and stay quiet.

“Daphne, we discussed this.”

“I know, I know.” Daphne pushed her chair back. “Lucky me. I get to spend a week with wonder boy and his useless rubber chicken. Will he finally be able to do a simple spell? Will he become a real wizard one of these days? Who knows!”

I let out a breath when I heard her door slam shut. 

When Daphne’s door slammed shut, I asked, “Do you really think it’s a good idea to leave us alone?”

Thorne fiddled with her ring. “I’m hoping it will be fine.”

“She’s going to kick the shit out of me.”

Thorne sighed. “You’ve been a good kid the past two weeks. I know you’re only doing it for my sake, but…” — she patted my cheek and gave it a little push — “you’ve been a real lifesaver, honest, you have. You’re a good kid, Harry. I wish I didn’t have to go, but… it’s essential. Not just for your sake, you understand. It's the livelihoods of… so many Light-Aligned families who live here. They’re relying on me. I can’t drop the ball.”

“Isn’t there somewhere else I can stay?” I asked. “Ron or Cedric or — ”

“This is your home,” said Thorne.

“It’s not,” I said. “Not with you gone. It’s, with Daphne, it’s going to be constant. She’s not going to let up.”

“It’s not fair what I’m doing to you,” said Thorne seriously. “Especially since you aren’t the problem here. It’s not” — she made a face — “something I take lightly. I have another property, so I could split you guys up if needed, but… I don’t want to. As selfish as it is, I don’t want Daphne to be alone next week because I fear what she’ll do to herself. It’s, ah, a bit of a milestone for her.”

Thorne cared for Daphne, I knew that. Their relationship went deep and large parts of it lay beyond my understanding. It was hardly surprising that Thorne would put Daphne’s wellbeing above mine. Two months versus eight years — no shit she would. 

Thorne tapped my temple, bringing my gaze forward. “I tell you this,” she said, “not to hurt you, but to demonstrate the trust I have in you. Believe it or not, I care for the two of you equally, but I worry about Daphne infinitely more. 

“I mean” — Thorne’s voice grew warm — “look at you. In under two months, you’ve managed to create a support system here, a life for yourself. Sure, no magic yet, but that will come in time. If you need something, people will help you. But Daphne… I just want you to understand the two of you are equal to me.”

If I had to take someone’s word based on faith alone, Thorne was at the top of my list. Maybe it was irrational, maybe I was letting myself be manipulated, but… no one in my entire life had been as kind to me as she had. 

Perhaps that’s what separated me and Daphne at the very core of our beings. I’d always choose trust over distrust, and she’d always choose cynicism over idealism. While I knew not which one of us was right, I knew I could live with the choice I made.

I reached out a hand, and touched one of the stitches on Thorne’s nose. “I believe you,” I said.

A moment passed between us. It was secret and familiar and _ours_. 

“You’re a good kid,” said Thorne. Her eyes twinkled. “Tomorrow’s Friday. Maybe we could do something fun, hm?”

I gave her a suspicious look. “Whenever you say that, it usually means: _want to keep me company while I run boring errands?_ ”

Thorne’s eyes went guileless and wide. “Does this look like the face of a person who’d do that to you?”

“That depends,” I said. “Are you?”

Thorne nodded. “Oh most definitely. Make no mistake.”

I laughed. “Then, yes.”

* * *

 **FLOR** **E** **AN FO** **R** **TESCUE’S ICE CREAM PARLOR STOOD IN THE CENTER** of Diagon Alley, next to a second-hand book shop and opposite Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions. The shop’s interior was a colorful explosion; a royal decree of blue ceramic tiles and upholstered ruby booths. The parlor walls were a stage, and ice cream cones were its dancers. A story played out, rendered in silhouette. An empty cone that found friends — one scoop, two scoops, _three_ scoops of ice cream, and each of these scoops had a goofy smile and big googly eyes that bulged with hyperactive energy.

“You know,” said Thorne as we sat at a booth in the very back of the shop, “you can tell a lot about a person by the kind of ice cream they get.” Her ice cream was lime green, and writhed with a wig of squirming chocolate snakes.

“There’s nothing wrong with vanilla,” I said primly.

Thorne’s eyes twinkled. “Try mine.”

I shook my head — those snakes looked shifty.

“Come on,” said Thorne, “where’s your passion, your joie de vivre?”

“Don’t we have somewhere to go today?” I asked.

“Later we do,” she replied, “but now we’re having fun.”

“But you see,” I said, “if we finish early, we can head back and get some magic practice in before the end of the day.”

Thorne ate one of the wiggling chocolate snakes with a squeak of delight. “Did you know I’m an ice cream expert?”

“Sorry — what?”

“An ice cream _expert_.” Thorne's voice was smug. “I know every flavor of ice cream in this parlor; I’ve had all forty-two. I don’t even need to look at the menu. I should list them for you, shouldn’t I?”

“Oh please do,” I mumbled under my breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

Thorne tipped her cone toward me. “See, I was going to let you get away without tasting this.”

“…and now?”

“Now you have no choice. Do you know why?”

“Because I’m a rabble-rouser?”

“Because you’re a rabble-rouser.” Thorne took my cone and replaced it with her own. “People like you are the reason wizarding culture is dead. Now then. A lick, if you please.”

I wrinkled my face up, brought the cone to my mouth, and gave it a little lick. I gasped. The ice cream was sugary and light. There were hints of lime and cinnamon, and an aftertaste of white chocolate that lingered on my tongue like a soft, teasing kiss. 

“Well?” asked Thorne.

“Alright, fine, it’s amazing,” I said, “but you’re still bat shit.”

Thorne’s laugh filled the parlor.

* * *

 **THE COBBLESTONES OF DIAGON ALLEY GLOWED ORANGE IN THE AFTERNOON SUN.** The street was crowded, but its inhabitants gave us a wide berth. That was normal, though — most wizards avoided Thorne if they could help it.

Slender and graceful, she stood head and shoulders above everyone in the alley, and what made her height more jarring was how her overly-long-too-thin arms stretched all the way to her knees. A long, thin shadow slithered away from her, and as we neared the entrance of Knockturn Alley, I found myself watching the cobblestones below her feet so I could continue keeping pace beside it.

“So…” I asked eventually, “where are we going anyway?”

“We, Harry, are going to get some seeds from a rather oily fellow named Corban Yaxley.”

“The guy with the massive pumpkins?”

“Don’t know if that’s polite to say in public, but yes, his pumpkins are pretty massive.”

The cobblestones turned darker and the shops became fouler as we entered Knockturn Alley. Wizards leaned in alleyways and in smoky store stoops, having hushed conversation that seemed sinister and secret. I stepped closer to Thorne, and she put an arm on my shoulder.

“Why are we getting them from him?” I asked.

“Because there’s a pumpkin shortage and Corban Yaxley has seeds for sale.”

That didn’t make a lot of sense to me.

“But at Pomona’s Patch there were so many.”

Thorne nodded. “Most of them were pre-bought. It’s common for wizards to hire a magiherbologist to grow seeds for them. It’s quite time intensive. That’s what Pomona’s Patch actually is. Pomona sells the seeds and then she grows the pumpkins, but she doesn’t pre-seed because she’s selling on a per-household basis and doesn’t want to waste any yield.”

“The Yaxley’s pumpkins were much bigger than her’s.”

“They are,” agreed Thorne. “They’re treated with a potion and grown in — I don’t know the full details of it — but it’s not organic. It lets the seeds grow faster than mundane agriculture allowed. You can imagine Light-Aligned wizards aren’t too chuffed about it.”

“Because magic should work in union with nature and not replace it?”

“Look at you,” said Thorne, and pinched my cheek. “Being all smart. I’m so proud I think I might cry.”

We stopped in front of a store coated in a thin layer of cracked black paint. Above the door was an inscription that read:

 _MOSTE POTENT_ _E_ _POTIONS  
_ _Unconventional Solutions For Unconstrained Potioneers_

Inside, the store was pitch-black. Hundreds of animals floated in glass jars, suspended in gooey liquids that glowed ethereally in varying shades of yellow, orange, and green. The floor and ceiling were a grid of mirrors, and these mirrors made the rows of glass jars multiply, both upward and downward, until it felt like we were swimming in an endless ocean, and the gleaming jars were neon jellyfish that bobbed alongside us in the current. 

The door shut behind with a sharp _snap_ , and a wave of cold air swept into the room. An odor, metallic and cloying, descended. I shivered, and stepped closer to Thorne, not wanting to bump into anything… or anyone. 

“This place is creepy,” I mumbled. 

Thorne put a hand on top of my head, and as we walked further into the shop’s dark embrace, she didn’t let go, perhaps sensing I didn’t want her to. 

“Good afternoon,” said a voice. “ _Incendio_.”

 _Hiss_. A candle sputtered to life. Flame danced. Light cascaded across the walls. A man’s face melted out of darkness. He had thinning grey hair, a well kept mustache, pencil thin eyebrows, and a pair of lips that seemed to be fixed in a permanent sneer. It was Corban Yaxley. 

“Isn’t your store a little… uhm… a little dark?” asked Thorne.

“We deal in a great variety of substances here.” Corban had an oily voice, slick with condescension and pride. “Potion ingredients are sensitive to a whole host of stimuli, light and temperature chief among them.”

Thorne bristled. “Yes, thank you for explaining basic potion management to me. I am, as you know, exceeding stupid.”

I choked on a laugh. Corban turned toward me. Lit from below as he was by the candle, deep shadows slanted across his face. So sharp were they that his eyes lay hidden, shrouded almost entirely in darkness. 

“May I help you?” he asked me.

I pointed at Thorne — “You can help her.” — but Corban didn’t look away. 

Thorne bristled again. “We’d like some seeds if you don’t mind.”

Corban nodded. “It would be a pleasure.” He rapt sharply on the wood countertop below him. With a creek, a door in the back of the shop swung open, and hard, white light burst into the room. A boy stepped out who had wiry black hair and watery eyes. “Theodore,” said Corban, “please fetch Mister Potter some seedlings.”

The boy turned and walked back the way he came. The door closed and the light vanished. 

Corban smiled and the shadows across his face became gargoyle-like. “To know my seeds will nourish the boy-who-lived… it is an honor.”

That was the creepiest thing anyone had ever said to me. 

“Uh… thanks?”

“Seeds selling well then?” asked Thorne.

Corban didn’t look at her, and addressed his response to me. “Our customers are full and satisfied.”

“Bad press, though.”

“Lesser wizards fear what they do not understand. If Thomas Abbott and Lucius Malfoy wish to scrounge in the dark, who am I to stop them? Sapere Aude.”

Light burst back into the room as Theo re-emerged, holding a brown paper bag no bigger than my palm which was sealed shut with wax. 

“It will all be settled on the 25th,” said Corban as Thorne stepped up and took the paper bag. “If the Wizengamot votes true, Yaxley Seeds will become the new standard in magiagriculturalism.”

“Well, isn’t that a cheery thought,” said Thorne.

Corban held out a disembodied hand that hovered in the dark, suspended above a flickering flame. “That will be twenty-five galleons.” 

Thorne counted the large, gold coins, dropped them on the ground, and turned to leave.

“Please, do come again,” said Corban as the door closed behind us, “I have no doubt you will.”

* * *

 **“BIT PRICKLY, WEREN’T YOU?”** I asked once we were back in Diagon Alley.

Thorne made an angry sound. “He’s a pig. I hate it when people talk down to me.”

“You talk down to me all the time,” I said.

“Yeah,” said Thorne with a laugh, “but you’re shorter than me, and incredibly stupid, so what choice do I have?”

“One day I’ll stand on a box, and you won’t have a leg to stand on.”

Thorne snorted. “If that day comes, I’ll” — a girl bumped into her and fell on the ground — “oh, hello there, I’m sorry about… Hannah, is that you?”

The girl had red hair, freckles, and thick wire-rimmed glasses. Her skirt was ankle length, and a crisp white blouse lay tucked inside it. A black purse dangled from her inky fingertips that was embroidered with several yellow Pygmy Puffs. “Thorne!” she said and pushed herself up. “Oh gosh, what a lovely surprise.” She stood with her ankles and knees pressed tightly together, very prim and proper.

“It’s so good to see you,” said Thorne. “It’s been… the last time I saw you was… you’ve gotten bigger!”

“Three years, time passes, not for you though. Still the same as ever.” Hannah smiled affectionately. “You don’t come to Knockturn often, do you?”

“Not if I can help it,” said Thorne. “I’m going away for a week and need to get a few things for Harry, here.”

“Goodness,” said Hannah, noticing me for the first time, “where are my manners? Hannah Abbot.” She curtsied. “Pleased and charmed to make your acquaintance.”

I didn’t know whether to laugh or bow. “Err — hullo.”

“What are you doing here?” asked Thorne.

“Daddy has written a new article about the Yaxleys and I’m taking it to print right now.” Hannah’s gaze fell. “He’s on his way. I’m sorry, but — ”

“I understand,” said Thorne, a melancholy note in her voice. “It was... good to see you, Hannah. Take care.”

“What was all that about I?” I asked as Hannah scampered away. 

Thorne sighed. “Never keep secrets from the people you love, Harry. Quite often, they do more harm than good.”

* * *

**THE FOLLOWING NIGHT, FLEUR ROUSED ME FROM SLEEP.**

_Tug, tug, tug_ , went the rope in my mind.

A sliver of warmth. _“Harry.”_

My eyes opened. Deep shadows lay across the ceiling.

_“Fleur?”_

_“I am outside.”_

I fumbled with my glasses, peered out the window, and gasped. Fleur stood beneath a canopy overhung with leaves, bathed in ghostly moonlight. Her head was upturned, gazing at my window.

 _“Why are you here?”_ I asked.

Fleur raised an eyebrow. _“Because I want to see you.”_

I took the stairs two at a time, heart racing. Shoes, coat, scarf — I didn’t even change out of my pajamas. It was a brisk night. A gentle breeze brushed against my face.

I turned. Our eyes connected.

God, Fleur was beautiful — even her jaw had an elegant curve. I traced it, admired it, memorized it. I looked further down, lingering on a pair of collar bones so delicate, they might have been carved from porcelain.

“You’re here,” I said. It seemed impossible.

Fleur ran her fingers through my hair, smiling a soft smile. “It has been too long,” she said, and pulled me in for a hug.

The last time I saw Fleur was a month ago. I remembered bits and pieces of that night — not getting a wand, a scattered conversation in Mister Ollivander’s living room, Fleur’s body pressed against my back — but besides those fragments, most of it remained a blur.

Since that day, she had become my closest companion: the voice in my head that watched the world alongside me. She knew me, better than anyone I had ever met. I couldn’t hide from her — literally, my thoughts were an open book. Our friendship was real and intimate, but utterly incorporeal. If I’m being honest, I forgot, sometimes, that she had a body at all — that she was more than just a voice in my head.

But she was, and she was here. Her embrace reminded me of warm summer days, of freshly brewed tea, of beef stew settling in my stomach. Fleur nuzzled the top of my head. Her hand, now tangled in my hair, pressed my face into the tiny pocket of space between her neck and shoulder.

“You’ve filled out,” she said, and pulled me back in.

“I don’t understand,” I whispered. “Why now?”

“Because today was” — Fleur tensed — “painful. So, I decided to be selfish.”

Fleur was... mysterious. She valued privacy. I didn’t know much about her. She was quite adept at dodging my questions. I knew by now that pestering her did no good. No, it was better to let Fleur reveal information at her own pace, in her own time.

So, I grabbed her hand, and started walking towards the woods. “I want to show you the river.”

“That actually... works out well.”

Fleur seemed perfectly at ease as I guided her through the woods. Tree roots didn’t trip her. Spider webs avoided her shoulders. She knew the names of everything we saw. Tree, animal, moss, or boulder, it didn’t matter — she greeted them all like old friends. A bank in the trees lay ahead, a bank that led to the river where I met Ron every morning. The forest bowed as we left its embrace, and a burbling river greeted us on the other side. Moonlight floated on the water — silver froth dancing at high tide.

“It is beautiful,” said Fleur. She turned just a little bit, just enough for me to see the corner of her mouth curl up.

I couldn’t look away. “Yeah,” I agreed. “It is.”

An odd feeling rose within me. I wanted to touch her, touch her lips — her bottom lip — it looked... so soft.

“Come,” she said, “let’s stand by the water.”

Fleur stepped onto the embankment, and when she neared the river’s edge, soft moonlight slithered down her frame, revealing a gold dress stained black with blood, and beneath that, a back torn from shoulder to hip by the cruel claws of a wild, feral animal. I moved on instinct — one hand on Fleur’s back, the other on her spine. She arched. Her shoulder blades met. I froze. She froze. For a long moment, we did nothing at all.

“We should clean those,” I said. Slick, hot, moistness ran down my fingers. 

“Yeah,” she agreed.

I grabbed Fleur’s wrist, and brought her arm around my shoulders. She leaned against me, and this time it felt different; this time, it felt _tired_. Fleur was heavier than I expected, oddly dense and compact. I could barely support her weight. By the time we reached the water’s edge, my breathing was labored, and my knees shook from the strain of staying upright.

I wish I could say I lowered her gracefully, but I didn’t. The moment I moved Fleur’s arm from my neck, she stumbled, tripped forward, and we both toppled into the water. Fear pulsed through me. I tried to stay afloat, tried to fight against the water, but the current was too strong. It tossed me this way and that, above water and below. I coughed and spluttered, unsure of how long I could hold out. And just when it seemed the worst would happen, just as I grew sure the tide would bear me away, Fleur grabbed me in a tight embrace and anchored my body against hers.

“You don’t know how to swim.” There was a smile in her voice.

“I do so,” I said, but I didn’t. I twisted, trying to break free.

“Don’t swim away,” Fleur whispered in a voice so sincere I stopped struggling altogether. Her dress lay slick against her body, and through it, I felt her, all of her, in a way I never had before. With nothing but water and fabric between us, Fleur’s warmth smoldered, turning to heat, and I _wanted_ it. A hard knot of tension coiled in my stomach. I ached to press myself closer, to rake my fingers down her sides, but… no, not here, not when she was — 

“You’re still hurt,” I said.

Fleur nodded. “I am.”

“Can I help?”

A pause. 

“Yes.”

Without any discernible movement from Fleur, we began to drift through the river. Curiously, our bodies didn’t cause a ripple in the water, but when a leaf carried by an errant breeze fell upon the river’s face, it did. For all the impact we made on water’s glassy surface, we may as well have been two ghosts suspended above a sheet of glimmering glass.

When we reached the water’s edge, Fleur helped me onto the outer bank, and a moment later, she joined me. Her dress was the color of white wine — rich, gold, and frothy. It was darker now, stained with blood and water, but I could imagine how the fabric looked when it was dry, dipping and curving the way wine does when it’s poured from a bottle into a glass.

“So… how do you want to do this?” I asked. 

Fleur turned so her back lay towards me. Her head dipped down, exposing not only her neck, but a golden clasp that secured the dress to her body. “It twists off,” she said. 

I nodded. “Cool.”

A few moments of silence passed.

Then, in a bemused voice, Fleur said, “That means you do it.”

Heat flooded my cheeks. “Oh.”

My hands shook as I grasped the clasp, twisted, and pulled the mechanism apart.

“Good. Now pull it down.”

That didn’t seem like such a good idea to me.

“Harry?”

“Uh...”

“You need to see if the wound is infected.” Fleur turned and looked at me over her shoulder. “You look like you’re about to pass out. Take a breath and do it.”

The dress shimmered as it fell from Fleur’s shoulders, revealing the strap of a plain, white bra. 

“How does it look?” she asked.

Now, with her wound washed clean of blood, I peered closely at Fleur’s back, trying to assess the damage. I saw how her skin stuck up at jagged angles, fraying at the edges like ripped plastic; how a thick mucosal membrane lay above a layer of muscle that crawled and bubbled like hot tar; how blood oozed from between those sinuous fibers, changing from black to blue as it met the open night air. 

“Well?”

“I mean, it doesn’t look _good_.”

“My blood — is it changing color?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

She sighed. “That’s not good, something is still in there.”

“Please don’t tell me you’re asking to — ”

“I’m afraid so,” she said.

“Can’t you heal it with magic?”

She shook her head. “No. I… can’t.”

“But surely there are people more — ”

“No.” Fleur’s voice was hard.

“Why?”

“Because I trust you.”

I gave Fleur an incredulous look. Trust didn’t make me more qualified to surgically remove something from inside her body.

“I do,” said Fleur fiercely. “What we share is… there aren’t many people who I… just, _please,_ take my word for it, okay?”

“But what if I — ”

Her voice rose. “You won’t.”

“But — ”

“ _Harry_.”

“Alright,” I said loudly. “Alright. Fine.”

A mask of tranquility wiped Fleur’s face clean of tension, and had I not seen her eyes, I might have believed that calm was genuine. A spark jumped between us, the night air hummed, and Fleur scorched me with her big blue eyes. The burbling river grew louder. A stray breeze rustled the forest leaves. Far off in the distance, branches crunched underfoot as an animal scurried through the underbrush.

Fleur’s voice shattered the silence. “Thank you.” She drew her knees to her chest, wrapped her hands around them, and leaned forward. Her wounds squelched, stretching open as the skin on her back went taught. “Describe them to me,” she said.

I crawled forward until barely an inch lay between us. “There are three long gashes going from your right shoulder to your left hip. In the center of your shoulder blades there’s an area of… black — that’s where all the blue blood is coming from.”

“Okay,” said Fleur, and a tremor ran through her. “I’m going to need you to peel the skin off in that area.”

I was sure I misheard her. “Sorry?”

“Dig two fingers into the gash, hook them, and pull.”

I swallowed. “Won’t it hurt?”

She hesitated. “Yes.”

“Is there — ”

“No.”

The grass sunk beneath my knees as I shifted upright. With a straight back, I steadied myself by placing one of my hands against Fleur’s neck. Blue blood dribbled from wounds that were now centimeters from my fingertips. “Are you _sure_ about this?” I asked.

Fleur nodded. “Do it quickly.”

“Count to three,” I said.

Fleur took a deep breath. “One. Two.”

I dug my two fingers into the middle gash and hooked my fingers up. Fleur’s skin slurped as I pulled. Globs of blood and mucosal membrane splooged onto my fingers and ran down my hand. My palm dug into Fleur’s neck, my knees sunk into the grass, and I yanked upward. 

The skin beneath my fingers stretched like goo, losing color and form as it became nothing more than flabby flesh dangling above a mucosal membrane. Steam rolled off Fleur’s back in waves as her hidden muscles met the cool, night air. I slid my hand up the layer of flesh to the very top and started to pull by the root.

The moment I succeeded, Fleur convulsed. A roar tore itself past her lips. The forest shook and a plague of crows descended from its depths. Caws filled the air, and feathers drenched the sky dark blue. Bile rose in my throat. I gagged. The slippery noodle of flesh slid from my limp fingers and impacted the grass below with a sickening squelch.

Fleur’s voice was ragged. “Slide your hand against the muscular membrane.”

“Fleur — ” I began.

“Press your palm against it.”

“Are you — ”

“ _Now!_ ” she snarled, and I did.

Fleur’s muscles were so hot I cried out and tried to jerk back, but her membrane congealed around my fingers, holding my palm in place. It was hot and moist, thicker than goo and stickier than honey. With a slurp, my hand sunk below the slime, and to my horror, the muscle underneath writhed beneath my fingers and started to suck like a pair of lips. Suddenly they disappeared, followed by my hand and wrist and forearm and elbow and bicep until finally, my shoulder lay flush against Fleur’s back with the rest of my arm inside her.

“Stop struggling,” she growled. “I’m trying to show you where it is. We’re almost there. I can feel it… it’s — ah! There it is.”

My knuckles brushed against something solid. The sucking sensation stopped. Adrenaline coursed through me. I couldn’t seem to form words. What was I supposed to do again?

“Focus, Harry,” said Fleur. “You need to pull it out.”

“What?”

“Snap out of it,” she snarled. “Grab it, and _yank_.”

When the object came dislodged from muscle it was attached to, Fleur let out a strange mewling gurgle. Her body quivered, her muscles clenched and unclenched, and I slid my arm out. With a sickening slurp, it emerged, coated in a layer of thick blue juice — Fleur’s insides.

“Yucky,” I said and tried to shake it off.

Fleur panted. Her skin felt hot, drenched in sweat. “Did you get it?” she asked.

“Yeah.” I turned the object round and round in my hand. “It looks like a tooth of some sort.” 

“Basilisks,” said Fleur, “are such crude creatures.”

I sat back down on the grass and Fleur fell against me. For a moment, we were a tangle of uncoordinated limbs and wet, river drenched hair. I propped myself up with one hand and cradled Fleur’s head with the other. When I looked further down, I gasped because her body was already starting to heal. Skin knitted back together; stray blood seeped back in; ripped muscles twisted and curled to form new sinuous fibers that vanished from view as new, unblemished skin crawled across, hiding them from view.

Fleur rolled onto her back and looked up at me. “Well,” she said lightly, “that was certainly something.” She pulled her dress up, and I reattached the golden clasp at her neck. I chewed through a million new questions, trying to think of something neutral to ask.

“You fought a basilisk?”

Fleur smiled slyly. “Maybe.”

“I don’t — I mean, I want — can’t you tell me anything.”

Fleur reached up to tap the bottom of my chin.“Sometimes it’s better not to know.”

“Look,” I said. “You say you trust me, but… I mean, my hand was inside you. Look at this!” I held up my arm, still glistening with slime. “What is this stuff? I don’t… I just… who are you?”

She blinked her big blue eyes. “I’m… Fleur.”

“Alright, just forget it.”

“It’s the truth,” she said. “I’m Fleur. I’m a girl. I’m eighteen. I have a mama and a papa and a little sister and teensie doggie named Yipyip who is very cute. I went to Beauxbatons and graduated last year. I — yes, there’s more, I _am_ more — but I like that you don’t know, because it makes me feel like… Fleur.”

“It feels like everyone knows more than me,” I said. “Thorne, Daphne, you, Ron, Blaise, Cedric — _everyone_. How am I supposed to defeat the Dark Lord if I’m kept in the dark?”

“Maybe… you don’t have to.”

I scrunched my face up. “I do.”

“The prophecy — ”

“I don’t care about the prophecy,” I said. “I don’t need destiny to tell me what’s right and wrong. I grew up with wrong, I _came_ from wrong, I saw it every day.” 

Fleur was silent for a long moment. “We should go.” I opened my mouth to protest, but she held up a hand. “I’m not saying this conversation is over. I’m saying we should leave _here_ because my blood attracts other…” — she searched delicately for the right word — “ _beings_ like me.”

She sat up and pointed to a pair of slitted yellow eyes that hovered in the darkness on the opposite bank. “Rumpus is friendly, but there are others nearby who… aren’t.” She gave me a smile that made my insides flip flop. “Shall we?”

* * *

 **MY BEDROOM WAS ON THE SECOND FLOOR OF THORNE’S COTTAGE** and normally served as an annex between the second-floor hallway and an adjoining staircase which led up to the roof. Initially, Thorne had been uncomfortable with me sleeping here, mostly because she had bigger rooms available. I don’t think I could have slept in any of them. The spaciousness, the extravagance, would have made me feel trapped, and when I explained that to Thorne, she had relented.

The annex was rectangular and cramped with barely an arm’s width of space from wall to wall, but it was perfect, and it was mine. There were massive windows on the far right side, interesting portraits on the left, and when I lay down in bed, it felt like I was sleeping under the stars.

Of course, I never expected I’d be entertaining a startlingly attractive, wet, blonde eighteen-year-old named Fleur at two o’clock in the morning. Now that we were here, standing side by side in a room too small for _one_ person, I wished, for the first time, that I had something bigger so I could put more physical distance between us and hopefully lessen the crackling electricity I felt in the air. 

Fleur seemed completely at ease in my bedroom. She walked up and down the annex, examining each portrait with a curious air. She nodded at a few of them, and when she reached the middle portrait — a squirrel trying to steal an apple from a fox — she asked a question in French, and laughed at the fox’s response. 

“Do you want, err…” — my mouth was dry — “a change of clothes, maybe?”

Fleur turned toward me with a raised eyebrow.

“I just mean your dress is still wet,” I said in a rush. “And since I can’t dry it with magic, I thought you might want something because, you know, it’s never fun standing wet clothes. I suppose I could see if Thorne or Daphne has anything lying around, but they’re asleep so our options might be — ”

Fleur smiled. “Yes.” 

“Oh, okay, great. Do you want pajamas? A shirt? I have one in white, black, grey, beige, navy — ”

Fleur’s smile grew wider. “Yes.”

“Uh, well, all my clothes are in there” — I pointed to the trunk propped open next to my bed — “so take anything you’d like. I’m just going to change in the bathroom so…” — god, why was my voice so high — “see you soon!” I darted out of the room with a dry pair of pajamas clasped in my hand.

The faucet creaked. Warm water rushed into the sink. I stripped and put on fresh pajamas. The tension from before was back, tying my stomach in knots. I felt stretched, anxious. I wanted to do something. Run a marathon, or jump up and down, or practice magic. Just… something. 

I splashed water on my face, hoping to clear my head. I looked up and examined my reflection in the mirror. _I’ve gained weight,_ I thought. The changes weren’t big, but I saw them. My cheeks were slightly fuller, my jaw seemed a little stronger, my joints looked less brittle. But what difference did that make when Fleur was —

I laughed helplessly and ran my fingers through my hair, trying to make it stand a little taller. What was I even doing?

Footsteps sounded in the hallway outside, going toward my room. A voice, _Blaise’s_ voice, said, “Hey Harry, I heard your voice and figured you were up. I was wondering if — oh? Hello.”

I opened the bathroom door. “Blaise?”

He turned toward me, and his eyebrows shot sky high. “Err — sorry,” he said, and shut my door. We walked toward each other.

 _What the fuck,_ mouthed Blaise.

 _I don’t know,_ I mouthed back. 

_That’s crazy._

_I know._

We passed each other, turned on our heels, and walked backwards so we could keep talking.

 _Dude_.

_I know._

_Dude!_

_I. Know._

We reached our respective doorways.

_Are you two…?_

I shook my head. 

_She’s in your bed._

I made a face. _No, she isn’t._

Blaise pointed at my door. _Look._

My mouth dropped open when I saw he was right. Fleur was lying in bed, _my_ bed, with the duvet drawn up to her waist. She waved. “Aha,” I said, “just a minute.” 

I shut the door and turned back to Blaise. _What do I do?_ I mouthed, but Blaise just smiled, gave me a thumbs up, and walked back into Daphne’s room, leaving me alone in the hallway. 

“Okay,” I told myself, “you can do this. Just… play it cool. Easy breezy.”

I took a deep breath and opened the door.

Fleur was still there, still in bed, still tucked into the covers, and I saw now that she was wearing one of my shirts, an old white button up with a hole underneath the right sleeve. She waved, and I waved back. 

“You found a shirt,” I said.

She gave me one of _those_ smiles. “It was at the bottom.”

I hesitated at the dresser, looking at the candle on top. “Should I…?”

Fleur flicked her finger, snuffing the candle out. She did it again, and every light in the room sputtered and died. She did it a third time, and the door behind me locked with a soft click. The covers rustled as she drew them back. 

“Come. It is late, and I would like to sleep before morning.”

“But you said — ”

“I know,” she said, “come.”

It felt like the world was moving in slow motion. I approached the bed, Fleur scooted forward, and I slid into place behind her. She leaned against me, turned on her side, and looped her arms around me. There was nowhere to hide, no injury to distract us. For a long moment, neither of us moved. 

Then, my hands came up, and in the darkness and the silence, I finally felt brave enough to brush my fingers against Fleur’s delicate hips. She pressed closer. Her breath whooshed out, hot against my neck. Electricity made the air between us _hum_. How long we stayed there, I knew not, but at a certain point, Fleur pulled the duvet higher up our bodies, and wriggled up so her lips were right next to my ear. When she spoke, her voice might have a breeze for all the noise it made.

“Three questions. Choose carefully.”

I licked my lips, more nervous than I’d ever been for. “Am I allowed follow-ups?”

Fleur smiled. “Yes.”

“Okay then. I guess, my first question is… what happened the day of the auction?”

Fleur’s hot breath washed against my ear. “I was there on an assignment. There was someone I needed to kill.”

“And the silver thread, the fire, what was all that about?”

“It’s how I track the things I hunt.”

“Are you hunting me?” I asked.

“I don’t know. It wasn’t me who marked you.”

“The eye,” I whispered. “Is that what it was?”

Fleur nodded. “Yes.”

I took a deep breath. “Okay. I think I’m ready for my second question now. What’s the eye?”

“She doesn’t have a true name because she predates language. Her descendants are known as Veela, and they exist to provide bodies for her to inhabit.”

“Is she inside every one of them?”

“No.” Fleur’s voice turned hard and cold. “Only I have that… _honor_. Her last host died when I was four, and I was chosen as the replacement.”

“It sounds like you hate her.”

Fleur’s voice was thoughtful. “Does it? I don’t know. I can’t remember life before her. Do I hate her? Maybe. Maybe not. I… _accept_ her.”

“Do you know why she marked me?”

“No.” Fleur didn’t sound happy about it, either. “She is interested in you and I don’t know why. She is hiding it from me. When she came out in the wandmaker’s house, it was… startling. She’s never taken control like that before. I couldn’t stop her. After that night, I resolved never to see you again, but” — she chuckled — “you can see how well that turned out.”

She leaned back and her big blue eyes bore into mine. “I wasn’t lying before. I _am_ human. My name _is_ Fleur. I _am_ a girl, but I’m also… more than that. My body plays host to a being that is, perhaps, an embodiment of one of the most powerful magical forces in existence.”

“And… what’s that?” I asked.

“Desire.”

Silence fell between us then, and it stretched for so long that the light in my room turned from midnight blue to dark grey. Dawn was breaking.

“Are you going to be here when I wake up?” I asked.

Fleur shook her head.

“Will I… see you again?”

She smiled. “Never.”

“But you’ll still be…” I pointed at my temple.

Fleur’s eyes clouded over. “When I mark someone, it’s because I’m going to kill them.” She hesitated for a moment, and then said, “I hope it stays, but… I don’t know if it will, or what will happen if it does, or… if it _should_. There is so much in the air, so much I don’t know. The world is changing and” — her eyes closed — “it feels like the past is haunting me.”

“But for now?” I asked.

Fleur opened her eyes. “For now.”

 _No use worrying now,_ I thought. So, I asked, “Are you ready for my last question?”

She nodded.

I smiled. “Will you tell me how you got Yipyip?”

Fleur laughed. Not chuckled, but _laughed._ Her face cracked wide open, her eyes lit up, and she smiled a real smile. It was toothy and wide and so big I discovered she had dimples. “Yipyip,” she said, and I could hear in her voice how much she loved her dog. “I almost named him Arfarf.”

We lay down together, Fleur threw one of her legs over mine, and she started telling me the story of how she stole Yipyip and almost caused a war between France and India. I wish I could say I remember what she told me, but I fell asleep long before she finished. When I woke the next morning, Fleur was gone, and she took my shirt with her. 

* * *

**THE NEXT MORNING, BLAISE POUNCED.** “So,” he said in a voice far too casual for comfort, “who was that girl in your bed last night?”

Ron coughed on a mouthful of corned-beef sandwich, and Cedric thumped him on the back — hard.

“Blaise!” I hissed.

“It’s an interesting story.” Blaise threw up a hand, setting the scene. “Picture me, last night, hearing Harry’s voice. This was peculiar since Harry’s usually out by ten. And guess what time this was?”

Ron set his fishing rod down and turned toward us with a look of rapt attention. “When?”

Blaise leaned forward. “Two o’clock in the morning,” He looked very pleased with himself and swirled his potion like champagne. He toasted me and took a large swig from the neon-green mixture.

“It wasn’t like that,” I protested. “You don’t — ”

“So,” said Blaise, ignoring me, “I decided to give my mate a how-do-you-do. I leave Daphne’s bed, walk down the hall, peer inside Harry’s room, and what do I find inside?” He paused, and his dark eyes danced with mischief. “A girl, and not just any girl, a _pretty_ girl.”

Ron’s mouth dropped open. “Have you been holdin’ out on us?” he asked.

Cedric laughed. “He totally has been. Look at how red his face is.”

“Nothing happened, guys!” I said. “Really!”

“Didn’t look that way from where I was standing,” said Blaise. He handed his now empty potion vial back to Ron who stored it in his toolbox. “All I saw was a girl wearing one of your old shirts and naught else.”

“No,” said Ron, aghast.

“Yes,” crowed Blaise.

“No…” I groaned.

“Yes,” laughed Cedric. “Harry, you’ve got tell — ”

“Oh, alright,” I growled, “fine. Her name is Fleur. She’s from France. She’s eighteen and she has a little dog named Yipyip.”

Blaise looked at Cedric, Cedric looked at Ron, and Ron looked at me. “…hang on,” he said. “You’re telling me that not only did you have a girl in your bed last night, but she was eighteen and _french?_ ”

Blaise nodded. “And blonde.”

 _“And beautiful_ ,” said Fleur. _“Don’t forget to mention how beautiful I am.”_

 _“You’re enjoying this aren’t you,”_ I hissed. Fleur laughed, a sound that chimed like ringing bells. 

“Wait,” said Cedric. “How pretty are we talking, Harry? A seven, an eight?”

Head flooded my cheeks. “A ten,” I mumbled.

Fleur _preened_.

“A ten!?” howled Ron. “S’not fair, innit? Some people have all the luck.” 

Cedric smiled a dazzling smile, the kind of smile that could win over someone like Fleur. “You have to tell us how you met her.”

“You wouldn’t believe me,” I said.

“Oh, yeah?” There was a challenge in Blaise’s eyes. “Try us.”

I hesitated for a moment, unsure of if I was allowed to. _“Can I tell them about you?”_ I asked Fleur.

 _“I suppose the damage is done,”_ she said in a wry voice. _“More my fault than yours.”_

_“...is that a yes?”_

_“You may brag.”_

I smiled at her comment, and said out loud, “Alright, fine. I met her during my auction. She threw a hair ball of fire at me that somehow made it so that I could hear her thoughts and she could hear mine. She might be an international assassin, but hey, who knows? Last night, she showed up out of the blue and I stuck my whole fist inside her to pull out a basilisk fang.”

It was silent for a moment.

“Are you sure she’s a real girl?” asked Ron.

“What?” I asked with a laugh. “Of course she’s a real girl.” 

“Polyjuice potion exists mate.” Ron gave me a knowing look and tapped his temple. “A little bit of hair and anything can be anyone.”

Cedric rolled his eyes. “You need to be human to turn into a human, Ron.”

“Beings can do it, too,” said Ron. “I heard about a hag who did some hanky-panky with a chap up in Bristol and _it_ used Polyjuice potion.”

“You’re a moron Ron,” said Blaise. “Never say ‘hanky-panky,’ again.”

“Well, who asked you, anyway? You’re named after a vegetable, what do you know?”

“What?” laughed Blaise. “No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are. A zabini. _Duh_. It’s the long green thing.”

Blaise turned to me with a look of disgust. “Do you know what he’s talking about?”

Unfortunately, I did. 

“Ron... it’s called a _zucchini_.”

“No, it’s not,” argued Ron. “It’s a _zabini._ My brothers told me so. That’s how Blaise got his last name. His family were _zabini_ farmers.”

“No, they weren’t,” squawked Blaise indignantly. “My family would never — ”

“Ron...” There was _no way_ he could be this thick. “Have you ever bought a zabini in public?”

Ron shook his head, looking glum. “Nah, mate. Whenever I ask the muggles for one, it never works out.”

“But, why?” I leaned forward. “Do they say: _we’re out of stock_ ? Do they say: _we don’t know what that is?_ ”

“Neither mate. Usually, they just say: _why would we have one? It’s not winter yet_. Muggles,” — Ron rolled his eyes — “what can ya do?”

* * *

 **IT WAS MONDAY, THE DAY THORNE LEFT FOR FRANCE.** We were in the kitchen, and a feather lay before me on the kitchen table. The weight of the rubber chicken was familiar, comforting. I had practiced so many times I knew this spell inside and out. My hand tightened and sweat gathered on my brow. 

This was it. This was my moment. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and _believed._

_Swish and Flick!_

“ _Wingardium Leviosa._ ”

The feather burst into flames.

“Well,” said Thorne as she extinguished it, “maybe that was too much spunk. But, hey, progress, right? Good job, kiddo.”

I smiled.

_Finally… progress._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta’d by Jarizok


	7. Augurey’s Perch

**ON MONDAY NIGHT, I GRABBED THE ROPE IN MY MIND.** _Tug, tug, tug._ It was warm and gold. It felt like the sun, like fire, like _Fleur_. What if I followed it? When I entered my mind, if I did, I never traveled far — I didn’t dare. But perhaps today, here, right now… yes, okay, why not?

A soulless white void thudded into being, one I recognized immediately. To my left was a forest, inky watercolor against an unformed canvas. To my right was a river devoid of substance, of water, and what swirled in its place was unxious, black smoke. It curdled like sludge and bubbled like tar, borne forward on the back of some invisible current. But where was it flowing? Where did it lead?

I started to walk, following the current, the rope, and as I did, the forest loomed higher and thinner, stretching skyward as my perspective of it warped. A sense of foreboding shivered through me — no, it was more than foreboding — it was fear, yes, fear, and perhaps even  _ danger _ . Something lay hidden in the forest of black trees, in the forest I dared not enter. What could it be? Was it my magic? Is that where it was hiding?

Fleur knew. Thorne knew. They didn’t want to tell me, didn’t think I could handle the truth, but I knew more than they thought, yes, I knew the monster had come out once. That day in the snow, the day when magic swirled and I became the storm, did they think I forgot that feeling on the day I almost came undone? The power, the swirling black tendrils, the feeling of freedom... the last time I’d been able to use _magic._

What was to stop it from happening again? Did Thorne and Fleur, wardens of this knowledge, think my monster would remain dormant, quiet, and still? Foolish thinking,  _ wishful  _ thinking. Didn’t they know how monsters worked? That day in the snow when I’d come undone, it had writhed out of me and — 

...what had it done? I couldn’t remember, it was a blur. I remember the tendrils, the black, the intoxicating feeling of power, but not — 

I saw a tower in the distance, tall and thin, stretching higher than I could see. It blocked my way forward, my path to the other side. The rope and the river led to it, through it, but — 

What was the other side? What lay on the other end?

...I didn’t know.

_ “Fleur?”  _ I asked, hoping against hope she’d hear, but she didn’t. I was alone, and my mind was white and cold. No, wait, it wasn’t a tower, but a river.  _ That’s where the water went, _ I realized.  _ It went to the barrier. _

Up close, the water was green instead of blue, and secrets swirled in the rivulets. Secrets inside of secrets. I pressed my hand against it, felt that it was warm, and that fish swam within it. Some had three heads, others had hands instead of fins, and more, still, shone with a color that wasn’t red, wasn’t green, and wasn’t gold, but, somehow, was  _ all  _ of them. The fish eyed me as they passed, and instead of the bulging eyes I had expected, each of them had human eyes, green eyes,  _ my  _ eyes. They were eerily aware of my presence, startillingly intelligent, and I could tell they were resentful, yes, resentful, of the knowledge I sought.

But why shouldn’t I seek that knowledge out? It was my mind, after all. Did I think…  _ I _ couldn’t handle it? Was it because I still didn’t know what spunk was? I remembered Thorne’s description like a brand upon my brain. 

_ Spunk is the chip on your shoulder... _

What would happen if I grabbed the vertical river and tore its foundations asunder? Would I be killed in the resulting flood? Would what lay on the other side be strong enough to save me? It was impossible to know, and yet — 

_ It's the force inside you that stands up against the world… _

The black forest beckoned, but I was afraid. The trees swayed growing more corporeal by the second. If the water fell and the trees swayed, would the secrets the fish guarded become available to me? Did I even want to know what they knew? What if I found out that — 

_ Haven't you ever had a moment where you say... _

If I and the monster fought, who would win? Perhaps I was afraid because, when it came down to it, I was unsure if I was David or Goliath. Worse, still, was that, if I was correct,  _ both  _ of them lived inside me. The dualistic nature of my consciousness scared me. When did it happen? Did it start when I received the brand on my back? When — 

_ I want this, and you can't stop me... _

No, I wouldn’t, I wouldn’t look further. It was too risky, too dangerous. A new thought occured to me, more dangerous than any I’d had before. Was it possible that what lay beyond the vertical river would not only make  _ me  _ stronger, but  _ it  _ stronger. If nature had balance, and magic had balance, it made sense that I would, too. 

_ “Fleur?”  _ I asked, but again she didn’t answer. I looked at the rope, the golden rope, the rope that was warm and soft in my hand. I dropped it.

* * *

**THE NEXT MORNING, SOMETHING FLEW INTO MY WINDOW.**

_ Fwomp!  _ It bounced off.

I jerked up in bed, fumbling for my glasses. The world outside my window was grey, not dreary-grey like clouds on an overcast morning, but silent-grey, the kind of grey that felt as if the world were holding its breath, waiting for  the sun to fully rise in the sky, or for the moon to sink below the horizon. I pressed my cheek against the window and looked down. 

_ Oh, _ I thought,  _ it’s a bird!  _

I flung the front door open, crisp morning air stung my cheeks, and as I ran into the garden, damp earth clumped between my toes as I hadn’t thought to put on shoes. 

The bird, I discovered, was a raven, and quite a large one at that. It was all-black, sleek and glossy with an array of black and midnight blue feathers. One if the raven’s wings lay cradled against its body, its chest rose and fell rapidly, and its watery eyes bulged, no doubt trying to figure out what had happened.

“Hey buddy,” I said, and the raven turned its head to look at me. “I’m Harry.” The raven blinked. “I want to help you, but I have to take you inside, alright?” The raven pressed its wings tightly against its chest, almost as if it were trying to make it easier for me.

“Uh…” I said as I looked around the kitchen.

I looked around the kitchen. The pot from last night was still on the stove. Thorne had cooked Beef Stew as a going away present. Not knowing what else to do, I grabbed the empty pot and set it down on the kitchen table. “Sorry little guy,” I said as I put him inside. “I know, I know. I’m going to find something better in the forest, but I don’t want to leave you just lying on the table.”

I ran back through the hallway, put on my shoes, and yanked the door open.

“Goodness” — someone jumped back — “you gave me a fright! Hello.”

It was Hannah Abbott.

“Err — hello,” I said. “Can I... help you?”

“Ah,” said Hannah. “Yes, very good. Well, I was wondering if Thorne happened to be... available.”

“Uh, sorry. She’s...gone at the moment.”

Hannah's face fell. “Oh, I see. Yes. That’s very unfortunate. Shall I — yes, I think — yes, I’ll come back later, shall I?”

“Err, wait.”

“Yes?”

“You can come in if you want,” I said. “Uh... if it’s important. I’m not Thorne, but... she adopted me, so... I mean, if there’s anything I can do to help...”

“Ah.” Hannah nodded primly. “Splendid. Was not expecting, but, perhaps... yes” — she nodded — “I think, yes.” She pointed at herself. “Would love to come in if... if it does not put you out.”

I stood aside to let her in, and Hannah shuffled into the house. 

“Ah,” she said with delight as she passed the fireplace, “the scorch marks are still there.” Upon reaching the kitchen, she let out a small sound of surprise. “Oh goodness. A bird. Injured. How dreadful.”

“Uh... yeah. It flew into the window just now. I wanted to, uh... find something better than...” I pointed at the pot, embarrassed. “That’s what I was doing when I opened the door. But then — ”

Hannah nodded. “I see. You wanted to save the bird. If I may?” Without waiting for a reply, she unclasped her purse, pulled out her wand, and gave the pot a good tap. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, the pot shrunk, becoming clay, and from that clay, a swaddle of straw and wool emerged that climbed all round the interior of the nest.

It was an impressive transfiguration. Changing copper into mud wasn't easy, and to perform the spell non-verbally? My estimation of Hannah Abbott went up a few notches.

“Dreadful thing,” she said as she inspected her handiwork. “Flying accidents, I mean. Thought I’d help. After all, pots are no place for birds.” She tittered and fell silent. For a while, she stood next to the nest — knees joined, ankles pressed, hands gripping the handle of her purse— waiting with an air of polite expectation. 

“Uh... would you like to sit down?” I asked.

Hannah nodded and smiled. “Yes, thank you.” She placed her wand inside her purse, snapped the clasp shut with a gentle click, sunk into her chair, placed the purse on her lap, and folded her hands neatly on the table.

“Would you like some tea?” I asked.

Hannah smiled. “Licorice?”

I nodded.

“Little treats, always. Long as I can remember. For me, though?” Hannah paused, thinking. “Yes, I think, yes, tea would be lovely.”

“Let me get this out of your way.” I moved the nest from the table to the counter top. The raven had fallen asleep 

_ Hang in there buddy,  _ I thought.  _ You’ll be alright. _

Teabags from the cupboard, water in the kettle, kettle on the stove. How many times had I watched Thorne do this? So strange I was making the tea now.

“You are very like her, very like Thorne,” said Hannah. “Known her for... ages.  _ Ages  _ and ages. She’s my grandmother’s godmother.”

That comment made me turn. “Sorry — did you say, _grandmother_?”

“Yes.” Hannah scratched her nose with the heel of her palm. It was an odd gesture that hid her eyes from view. “She was a lovely woman. Simply lovely.”

“She’s not — ”

Hannah shook her head.

“How old?”

“Seventy-seven.”

Thorne was the godmother of a seventy-seven year old? She must be at least —

The kettle sang, drawing my attention. I turned the stove off. Two cups hung from a rack above the sink. The first one, black porcelain with trimmings of gold, was Thorne’s. The second, light blue with a doe cantering across the handle, was mine. 

_ Pour the water, soak the teabags,  _ I thought. Tendrils of smoke brought forth the smell of licorice. I closed my eyes. Thorne, it smelled like Thorne. 

“Ah,” said Hannah when I handed her the light blue teacup, “thank you very much.”

For a moment, we sat in silence. The tea was too hot for me to sip, but blowing on it in front of a stranger seemed rude.

“So...”

I felt awkward. I didn’t want to seem magnanimous or anything.

_ “... _ what can I... I mean, what can  _ we _ ...”

_ How does Thorne do this?  _ I wondered.  _ How does she put people at ease? _

“...is there anything...?” I trailed off.

Hannah traced the edge of her cup. “My dad is... a proud man. Big and strong. He’s” — she smiled a tender smile that existed only for her — “my hero. We, my family, I mean, plus our business partners, the Doges, we operate a newspaper called  _ The Liberator _ .”

I nodded. “I met your father. Thorne reads you guys.”

“Well, she would,” said Hannah. “Thorne gave us, my grandparents, I mean, she gave them the money to start it. She’s always been lovely to my family, more than a friend to us, you understand. She’s, well, she’s family. She was at my grandparent’s wedding. She was at my dad’s birth. She was at  _ my  _ birth. We’ve known her for ages. And, as I said before, my dad is... a proud man.” She sighed. “Too proud to ask for help.” 

Another soft smile. “He wants to be big and strong so he can be my hero. But family... family is, well, what I mean to say is...” She looked at me imploringly. “If you can’t ask family for help, then... who’s left?”

_ Clink. _ She tapped her cup, nail against porcelain. 

“So... what’s the matter?” I asked.

Hannah took a sip of tea. She set her cup down. Her hands curled around the handle of purse. The leather squared as her grip tightened. “At the beginning of August, we published an article about mud. Do you know much about it?”

“Uh... it’s — err — wet.”

“Wet?” Hannah’s voice was incredulous. “No, no, silly, it’s much more than  _ wet _ . Mud is, oh, it’s... it’s lovely. There’s more to it than what you see. And, in fact, that’s its value — it’s  _ more _ . It isn’t just  _ one thing _ . It’s... mixture, composition, harmony. It’s only  _ wet _ because it  _ is _ ... like a family. They only  _ are  _ because of their mixture. If they  _ weren’t  _ they’d be something else.”

Hannah scratched the bridge of her nose with the heel of her palm. “If mud isn’t present, things can’t, uh... they can’t take hold. The reason rivers maintain their shape is because mud on the riverbank allows plant life to grow. If it wasn’t that way, the river would constantly form new channels, never moving in the same direction. There’d be no... no...”

“Normalcy,” I said quietly.

“Well, yes.” Hannah laughed a little. “Goodness, that’s a good way to put it. No normalcy. That’s what our article was about. The Yaxley family wants to remove mud from the Pontarx estuary, and replace it with something responsive to magic so they can grow more pumpkins. Estuary land is... not good for growing, but the Yaxley’s don’t want to use it for that purpose. They want to  _ treat _ the pumpkin seeds with water and magic to simulate the conditions under which they  _ normally _ grow. They want to harvest pumpkins year-round.”

Several disjointed pieces of information were starting to come together in my mind. Thorne’s explanation about Corban Yaxley, Thomas’s interaction with Pomona Sprout… they were leading somewhere, but — 

“Well,” continued Hannah, “of course, when we found out about it, we published the article about mud and its environmental effects on the estuary. In response, they” — Hannah gripped her purse handle tighter — “the Yaxley family, I mean, they, well, they attacked our paper. Sued us for libel, but that didn't stop dad.”

“That’s why Pomona didn’t want him at the pumpkin patch,” I said.

Hannah nodded. “Yes. Daddy has been stirring the cauldron, perhaps a little too much. You see, the Yaxley family is trying to get funding from the Wizengamot so they can expand their operation and gain access to the estuary near Pontarx.”

“Sorry,” I said, “Pontarx?”

“Oh, yes, right. Pontarx is a…” — Hannah searched for the word — “hub for wizards who don’t fall either way on the Dark or Light spectrum. It’s residential, it’s commercial… the lion share of British wizards who aren’t nomadic live there.”

“Gotcha,” I said.

“You can imagine why the Yaxley’s plan is so unnerving,” said Hannah. “No one knows what will happen if he strips the mud from the estuary. Things could fall out of balance. For all we know, it could cause famine. My goodness, even the muggles will notice because the Thames will flood. And daddy, he thought, well, he thought it was his duty to write about it because the public has a right to be informed.”

She smiled a soft smile. “He wrote, it was fantastic and so very brave, he wrote about how the Yaxley family was lying to the Wizengamot about what their seeds could realistically yield. They’re trying to rush something through for… capital gain. No one is arguing we have a pumpkin shortage, but that’s not the earth’s fault. It’s our fault for signing the Reformation Act into law. If every Dark-Aligned family is required to produce five children, of course the population is going to explode.” 

“And… what happened when you published this article?” I asked.

Hannah's face fell. “We haven’t yet. Somehow, none of us know who, but, I suppose, there was a leak. The Yaxley's got their hands on it. Last Saturday, they, oh, our shop, it’s only splinters now. And we can’t circulate  _ The Liberator  _ because the whatchamacallit we use to print was damaged in the fire.”

_ Clink _ . Her fingernail against the teacup. She took a sip. Then another. Her shoulders rose. A deep breath. 

“Daddy is a proud man,” she said quietly. “He’s big and strong, but he can’t fix this because, well, as embarrassing as it is, we don’t have the money. We barely make enough to keep the shop open. But this is important. And” — her eyes met mine imploringly — “Thorne is family. So I thought, maybe... I thought if I explained, Thorne might be willing to help us.”

“Asking for charity, Abbott? Why am I not surprised.” 

Daphne was standing in the entryway to the kitchen, arms crossed. 

Hannah stiffened. “Daphne.”

“Your father said he never wanted to see Thorne again.” Daphne’s voice was more vicious than I’d ever heard it. “What could have prompted this change of heart?”

Hannah rose from her chair. “I — oh — this was a mistake.”

I threw up a hand. “Wait!” 

Hannah stopped.

I had never seen Daphne interact with anyone other other than Blaise and Thorne. Sure, she was cruel to me, but up till now, a large part of me had believed I was the exception to the rule, and that when she was interacting with other people, she was... normal. But maybe that was all Daphne was. Maybe she was  _ just  _ cruel.

“I want to help you,” I said. “I want to make sure the estuary stays safe. I don’t want the river to overflow, I don’t want things to change. Let me help.”

Daphne’s lip curled. “What could you possibly do to help her?”

My mind whirled and the solution tumbled out my mouth. “Cho. You said your printing thingie was a whatchamacallit, right?”

Hannah nodded. 

“I know someone who makes whatchamacallits. She’s  _ really  _ good. Thorne even thinks so. And while” — my mind turned again — “and while I don’t have the money, I could... I could ask her if she’ll look at it.” I looked past Hannah to Daphne. “And  _ she’ll _ help.”

Hannah still looked unsure.

I took a few steps forward. “I think you’re right. I think this is important. I want things to stay... normal. Plus you helped the raven” — I pointed at the nest she’d transfigured — “which was  _ really  _ nice of you. If you don’t want to be around Daphne, that’s fine. I can meet you... wherever.”

Hannah’s face softened. “What we managed to salvage is back at our house in the barn. I, well, we don’t have much — ”

“You can say that again,” snorted Daphne.

My temper flared. “ _ Shut up _ ,” I said in an ugly voice, and turned back to Hannah. “How can I get there?”

Hannah pointed past Daphne into the sitting room. “Floo Powder. The fireplace. Your house is already connected to mine.”

“Will you show me how to use it?”

Hannah nodded, and brushed past Daphne with a huff as she left the kitchen. When I tried to follow, Daphne stepped in front of me, blocking my way out.

“Move.”

Daphne smiled. “No.”

“ _ Please  _ move.” 

Daphne bared her teeth. “She’s not worth helping.”

“Whatever,” I said, and  _ physically  _ pushed past her.

Hannah was waiting in the living room.

“Floo powder is easy,” she said. “All you have to do is step into the fireplace, say where you want to go, and throw the power down. The name of our house is Augurey’s Perch.”

I nodded. “Okay. I’ll go speak to my friend now. She might be asleep already, but... soon. One way or another. Today or tomorrow. I’m going to help.”

This was something I could do. I could feel in my bones.

Hannah stared at me for a long moment. Then, she gave me a soft smile. “You’re... unexpectedly lovely. I’ll... let my parents know. I, well, thank you.” 

She grabbed a handful of powder from a pot by the fireplace and stepped into the h e a r th. It was a strange sight. “See you soon,” she said.

I waved.

Then, Hannah dropped the Floo Powder — “Augurey’s Perch,” she said — and with a great  _ whoosh _ , she disappeared in a howl of green flames.

I shook my head in wonder. Magic was… unbelievable. Every time I thought I couldn’t be amazed again, it somehow found a way.

“I don’t understand.”

I turned. Daphne was still in the entryway to the kitchen. 

“What do you  _ want _ ?” I asked impatiently. I had things to do — I needed to call Cho.

“I don’t understand,” said Daphne again. “Helping random strangers, saving a  _ fucking  _ bird... what do you  _ get  _ out of it?”

“Nothing,” I said. “I just want to help.”

Daphne’s face twisted. “You’re... a disaster. A wizard who can’t use magic. How can you help when you can’t even help  _ yourself _ ?”

That stung a little. 

“How are you going to save them,” she continued, “when the Dark Lord crushes you like a bug? What the fuck are you even — ”

My self-control snapped.

“ _ Shut up!” _

_ Don’t —  _ I ran a hand through my hair —  _ don’t shout,  _ I thought.  _ Don’t give her the satisfaction. _

I took a deep breath, and said, “You know, I’ve been alone my whole life. Ten years by myself.  _ Ten years  _ where I would have given  _ anything _ for it to be different. And you... you’ve had  _ every _ opportunity, and you  _ chose  _ to be alone. 

“The year you were adopted by Thorne, I was  _ starving _ . While you were learning magic, I was struggling to stay  _ alive _ . You think you’re the only person with a shitty childhood? The only person with scars? The only asshole angry at the world?”

Hot, white anger — a month and a half’s worth of anxiety about Fleur, Daphne, Thorne, and Magic — erupted.

“ _ Fuck you _ , Daphne.  _ Fuck you _ for having a life so good you can’t see what you — ”

I stopped.  _ Even when I’m right, I still lose,  _ I thought. Thorne had asked me to keep the peace, and I was doing a pretty shit job of it right now. 

“I have to call Cho,” I said, and turned to leave. Daphne was talking, but I didn’t care, it was too much effort to listen.

* * *

**WHEN CHO STEPPED OUT OF THE FIREPLACE LATER THAT MORNING,** I couldn’t help but laugh at the ridiculous knitted jumper she was wearing. It was yellow and had a stripe of red running through the middle. Across the top was an inscription written in bubblegum-pink cursive. “HAPPY CHRISTMAS: 1989,” it read.

“Little early for that, don’t you think?” I asked.

Cho slung an arm around my shoulders and ruffled my hair. “Now is that any way to talk to someone who’s coming to help you?”

“Oi,” I said. “Get off.”

Cho clinched her arm around my neck, putting me in a headlock. “I gave up a night of sleep for this,” she said.

“God,” I grunted as I struggled to break free, “how are you this strong?”

“I’m not,” sniggered Cho. “You’re just pasty. And white.”

“I’m  _ not  _ pasty,” I hissed, but that only made Cho laugh harder.

Eventually she released me, and we stood there grinning at each other. “So what’s this place called again?” she asked.

“Augurey’s Perch,” I said.

Cho jerked her head at the pot of Floo Powder. “Well, go on then.”

I gave the powder a dubious look. “So I just… stand in the grate and throw the powder in, yeah?”

“Pretty much sums it up,” said Cho. “Make sure you say your destination clearly, else you might get lost.”

“I can… get lost?” I asked.

“Well, yeah,” said Cho. “All wizarding fireplaces are connected to the WFN. There are grates all over the place.”

“Sorry, what’s — ”

“The Wizarding Floo Network,” said Cho, obviously anticipating my question. “Makes intercontinental travel a right breeze. Course you have to know where you’re going, but once you do, you’re on your way.”

“Right,” I said. “I’ll just… get cracking then.”

I grabbed a pinch of powder and stepped into the hearth. Cho crossed her arms, hiding the epithet on her ridiculous knitted jumper.

“Thanks for coming with,” I said in a soft voice.

“See you on the other side,” she responded.

“Oh, and Cho? That jumper is  _ hot _ .” I dropped the powder, and the fireplace roared to life. I laughed at the outraged look on Cho’s face, coughed, and swallowed a mouthful of ash. “Augurey’s Perch,” I spluttered, and with a roar, the fire swept me away in a flurry of emerald green flame.

* * *

**A HAIL OF DUST BILLOWED FROM THE GRATE WHEN** **I EMERGED** from the fireplace, stumbled, tripped forward, and fell, face forward, onto the wooden floorboards below. It was dark. A musty smell hung in the air. Nearby, I heard a high-pitched whistle, the sound of escaping steam. Sloshing liquid, then bubbling liquid, then… nothing at all. A flurry of wings cut through the simmering silence — birds passing overhead — a sharp squawk, then another — I rolled onto my back — I looked up.

Dusty daylight slanted through the dilapidated planks of a pitched roof. Curving above, under, and through the wooden rafters were five lines of plastic tubing. At the back of the room, the tubing descended, threading through the filter of an hourglass shaped tank. There were five of these, too, and each was copper-plated and adorned with fittings of stainless steel.

“Great,” I muttered as I walked toward the tanks. “Just great.”

A long, rickety workbench sat in the center of the room, and a curious assortment of items lay upon it. I saw a transparent ball filled with white smoke, a simmering cauldron, and a jar filled to the brim with white hair. Propped against the doorway was a black cabinet complete with crown-molding and gold handles. Splinters of wood lay all around it, and a diagram was pinned on the wall beside it.

I walked toward it, curious. I felt a strange buzz coming from the cabinet — a sense of foreboding, a touch of dark magic. I reached out, intending to touch the burnished gold handle, but before I could, the cool tip of a wand pressed against my neck.

“Trespassing is illegal in these parts,” said a voice. “Hands up.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to, it was an accident.”

“Turn around slowly. Keep your hands raised.”

I did as the voice commanded and came face-to-face with a boy a few years older than I was. He had a narrow chin, a wide jaw, and a protruding forehead. Beneath a generous mop of curly black hair were serious eyebrows, and two different colored eyes — one blue, one green.

“This property is warded against the intruders,” said the boy. “How did you get in?” He leaned closer. “ _ Why  _ did you come here?” He took a step toward me, and his voice dropped to a whisper. “Does anyone know you’re here?”

“The… the Floo!” I spluttered. “I got out at the wrong grate.”

“Seems like a big coincidence to me,” said the boy.

“I was trying to get to Augurey’s Perch — the… the Abbotts! Their printing press was destroyed in a fire.”

The boys twirled his wand between his fingers. “So you thought you’d come and finish the job, eh?”

“That’s not what I’m saying at all!” I said, and then I started to babble, my words spelling out in a rush. “Hannah, she came to  Thorne’s house,  _ my  _ house, asking for help, but Thorne left for France yesterday so she couldn’t. I know someone who fixes doohickeys though, and she agreed to look at it. I was trying to Floo over, but... but I must’ve done something wrong. I’m sorry for trespassing. I didn’t mean to — honest, I didn’t!”

The boy’s voice rose. “You expect me to believe you live with Thorne. The same Thorne who teaches Harry Potter and Daphne Greengrass.  _ That  _ Thorne!?”

Relief flooded through me. “That’s who I am!” I said. “I’m Harry Potter.”

“Sure,” said the boy with a laugh, “and I’m Merlin.”

“No — look!” I pulled back my fringe to show the boy my scar. When I let my hair fall, black soot coated my fingertips.

The boy’s mouth dropped open. “You are,” he mumbled, “you’re  _ him _ .” For several seconds, he gawked. Then, he threw his head back and laughed. It was free and boisterous, and so loud it dislodged the remaining birds from their perch in the rafters. They squawked angrily, taking flight in a flurry of feathers.

“That’s too funny,” said the boy. “Sorry about the fifth degree, mate.” He held out a hand. “Clive Doge. My parents co-own  _ The Liberator  _ along with the Abbotts. It’s been tough lately, what with the Yaxleys, and the shop burning down and all.”

“Oh, um…” I shook his hand. “No problem. Sorry about the whole… breaking into your house thing. Do you know how I might…  _ walk  _ to the Abbotts?”

“Not keen on using Floo Powder again, eh?” chortled Clive. “Not to worry. Augurey’s Perch is a ways down the hill. The Abbotts are our neighbors. It’s us, them, and no one else for miles and miles. That’s why I was suspicious, see? Sorry again about all that. I feel dreadful for being so beastly to you.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” I said. “I totally understand.”

“Let me walk you to Augurey’s Perch as an apology,” said Clive. “Just so you don’t get lost.”

I hesitated, unsure. Clive certainly _seemed_ genuine enough, even if his demeanor had completely changed from just a few seconds earlier. But then again, if I were in his shoes, I’d probably be on edge too. After all, I’d done the equivalent of breaking into his house. So, I did what I always did when I felt unsure — I asked Fleur.

_ “What do you think I should do?” _

For a second time that day, she didn’t respond. It was...  _ unusual _ , but I didn’t have time to worry about it now.

I decided to trust my instincts. “If it doesn’t put you out, I’d appreciate it,” I said.

Clive jerked his head toward the door. “We better get you out before my dad sees. He’ll go ballistic. Come on.”

* * *

**CLIVE LED ME THROUGH A GRAVEYARD LINED WITH CRUMBLING** tombstones on either side. A wrought iron fence lay around it, and beyond that fence, was a burbling stream.

“Our family has lived on this land for generations,” he said. “Firewhisky mill is new though — built by my grandfather, Elphias. Had Dragon Pox as a kid, poor bloke, and he couldn’t find work because of it. So, he decided to make his own fortune. He’s buried over there. All the Doge’s are buried here. Including Great Aunt Theodora. She was a troll.”

“Literally?” I asked.

“Nah,” laughed Clive, “but Elphias, her brother, thought she was a right shit. So he put a club above her tombstone as a joke. Wicked sense of humor he had. Just wicked.”

Clive was a chatty bloke, always laughing about something or other. As we walked over sun-kissed hills and through patches of violet brambles, he kept me well supplied with a (mostly one-sided) stream of conversation. I didn’t mind much. He was funny and charming — like Blaise and Fleur. It would have been hard  _ not  _ to like him.

“So, how’s dear old Daphne doing?” asked Clive as we crossed the stream we were walking beside.

“Uh… she’s fine, I guess,” I said.

Clive laughed. “Not too fond of her, eh? S’alright, you don’t have to pretend with me. She’s a piece of work.”

I kicked a rock moodily. “Everyone seems to think so.”

“Except Thorne,” said Clive. “Don’t envy you, mate. Living with her and all that. How long is Thorne going to be gone?”

“A week,” I said.

“A week!” howled Clive. “Tough break.”

“I know,” I agreed. “She’s awful.”

“At least you know what you’re getting into,” said Clive. “Daphne don’t hide none.” We stopped at a tree with a large glowing ‘A’ carved into the trunk. “We go… right at the tree, I think.” Clive turned and marched off. Then, without missing a beat, he continued. “Think I prefer people like her to these two-faced fucking dandies who walk around all day pretending to be nice to everyone.”

“That’s because  _ you  _ aren’t living with her,” I said. “I  _ wish  _ she’d pretend a bit.”

“Nah,” said Clive with a shake of his head. “You don’t.” He stopped and turned to me with uncharacteristic seriousness. “Betrayal is the worst feeling there is — nothing comes close. Take it from someone who knows.”

The sun climbed high in the sky as we walked. The grassland transformed, turning wet and squishy. Before too long, we were walking through a mosquito-infested bog. Our shoes got muddy, water soaked our socks, and when we passed a deep well of water covered in moss, a blue tentacle broke past the surface, and waved.

“Sorry again about all that business about the Floo earlier,” said Clive when we were on dry grass again. “Dad’s been on the warpath about it.”

“How come?” I asked.

Clive made a disgruntled sound. “He’s been real paranoid since the attack, trying to up our security with the wards and whatnot. Problem is the WFN goes straight through them — all of them. Only thing that blocks it is the Fidelius charm, but that blocks  _ everything _ , so we wouldn’t be able to use the Floo either.”

“Isn’t there any oversight, or — ”

“Oversight!?” howled Clive. “In this country? You really are new around here, aren’t you? The WFN is controlled by the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. It’s broken intentionally so people can’t hide.”

“That’s awful,” I said. “I had no idea!”

“Dad says people exploit it all over Britain.” Clive picked up a stick and started whacking the trees as we passed, stripping them of bark. “Once you leave your fireplace and enter someone else’s that connection stays open forever.”

I frowned. If anyone could use our Floo, why on earth had Thorne left us alone?

“Of course,” continued Clive, “the more powerful you are, the safer you’ll be. No one fancies a stroll in  _ Thorne’s  _ house, if you follow. It’s mainly the little guys who get fucked.” He paused and gave me a serious look. “I’d keep news of Thorne’s departure under wraps if I were you. You never know who’d be interested in that information.”

“Right,” I said. “Thanks for the heads up. There’s so much I don’t know.”

“But then again,” said Clive, his jovial tone returning, “you  _ are  _ living with Daphne.”

“She’s scarier than Thorne!” I said.

Clive laughed. “Right. And — oh look — here comes the cavalry.”

Hannah was walking toward us. She had changed outfits since this morning, and now wore a bright summer dress embroidered at the edges with flowers and bumblebees.

“Thank goodness,” she said when she reached us. “I was worried. What happened?”

“I came out the wrong grate,” I said. “If it wasn’t for Clive here, I don’t know what I would have done.”

Hannah turned sharply. Her eyebrows met in a thin line. “I see,” she said.

“I wanted to make sure Harry got here safely,” said Clive with an easy-going grin. “I told him ole Clivinian Doge would show him the way back.”

Hannah nodded slowly. “Lovely. Thank you, Clive.” She raised her eyebrows meaningfully. “If daddy sees you here, he’ll have a fit.”

“Right, right,” said Clive. “I’m going back. It was nice meeting you Harry. I can’t believe…” — he chuckled and ran a hand through his curly black hair — “I just didn’t expect to run into you. What a fun surprise.”

“Thanks for everything,” I said. “Really.”

Clive raised a hand in farewell. “Take it easy. I’ll see you later, Hannah.” Then, he walked a few paces away, turned on his heel, and disapparated with a sharp crack.

* * *

**FOR A LONG TIME AFTER CLIVE LEFT,** Hannah and I walked in silence. I felt… awkward, unsure of what to say. Hannah fiddled with the leather handles of her purse, watching the ground below. Our footsteps seemed loud — too loud. It made me anxious.

“Did Cho get there alright?” I asked.

Hannah didn’t answer.

“Hannah?”

“Yes. So sorry.” Hannah laughed a little. “I seem to be distracted.” The leather straps of her purse squeaked as she twisted them tighter.

“I — err — is everything… alright?”

Hannah sighed. “This is — I… oh dear. I didn’t expect to see Clive today. It’s… oh, it’s awful to ask this of you, I know, but… if you could refrain from telling anyone you saw him, or saw him with  _ me _ , it would be… lovely of you.”

“Of course I’ll keep it under wraps,” I said. “It’s none of my business anyway.”

“It’s… complicated.” Hannah scratched her nose with the heel of her palm, obscuring her eyes from view. “You see, we were engaged. The Reformation Act, you know.”

“Uh… no, I don’t,” I said. “Sorry. New in town, remember?”

Hannah made a soft, uneasy sound. “Oh, I see, well — yes, okay, I suppose I can — oh dear. I suppose you could call it a marriage law. It stipulates that all female wizards must be married come their seventeenth birthday. If they don’t, well, the ministry can… appoint a suitable partner for them.”

“I… oh… I don’t know what to say.”

“It is,” said Hannah softly, “one of the reasons why our population has expanded so rapidly. Everything is connected, you know. One change triggers another. An old ending is a new beginning and so on.”

“Did it not end well then? You and…” I trailed off when Hannah looked at me sharply. “You don’t have to tell me, obviously,” I said in a rush. “It’s none of my — ”

“No,” she said. “No, it’s… I was just… surprised.” She smiled a little, and hugged her purse to her chest. “I was… thirteen when we got engaged as is typical. The Doge’s were our closest friends. Clive was my age, it seemed like… destiny?”

“What happened?” I asked.

“Clive and Daphne…” — Hannah paused, searching for the right word — “made love, and after that, Clive went to daddy and broke off our engagement.”

“So that’s why it’s so weird between your family and Thorne,” I said.

“We all made choices that day.” Hannah sounded tired and sad. “Daddy went to Thorne and demanded Daphne take responsibility. And Thorne… well, she — ”

“Defended her,” I finished.

“Right,” agreed Hannah. “But that’s the way of the world, I suppose.”

A familiar flash of hot anger shot through me.  _ Thorne should take some fucking responsibility, _ I thought.  _ By her own inaction, she’s responsible for everything Daphne does. _

Ahead of us, the crest of a sharp incline came into view, marked by patches of blue and violet brambles. Dark clouds glazed the sky grey, and while it was only noon, the air felt quiet and cold, as if the stillness of midnight still lingered on in the waking world around us. The higher we climbed, the more the mist dispersed, and when we reached the peak of the summit, all the murky gloom finally melted away to reveal a hidden valley.

“Welcome,” said Hannah quietly, “to Augurey’s Perch.”

Rolling pastures of green sloped away from us, bending into the mouth of an ancient valley. A long, rectangular stage lay at the base of the descent, marked by a flat-topped ranch house on one side, and a steepled barn on the other. Benches, separated by walkways, climbed up the valley walls, not an intrusion on the landscape, but _part_ of it, _birthed_ from it. A wooden grid hovered above, and great mournful birds sat astride it, birds with greenish-black feathers and beady little eyes who _cawed_ when they met my gaze. Molded clay fixtures, brilliant lavender poppies, great streamers of sputtering fire — they all came from mud, soil, earth.

Without another word, Hannah led me down a center aisle. When we reached the bottom, Cho emerged from the barn and ran up to us. “Nice of you to finally show up,” she said.

I shrugged. “Sorry — Floo travel isn’t as easy as it looks.”

Cho ruffled my hair. “Figured you got out a grate too early. It happens. Besides, while Hannah was off looking for you, I got a chance to look at their whatchamacallit.”

“And?”

Cho shook her head. “No dice. Whoever tampered with it knew  _ exactly  _ what they were doing.”

I sighed and turned to Hannah. “So… what now?”

Hannah smiled grimly. “Now we have to fight our hardest battle yet.”

“And… what’s that?” I asked.

“We have to talk to daddy.”

* * *

**AT FIRST GLANCE, THE INTERIOR OF AUGUREY’S PERCH** seemed no bigger than an outhouse. It had four walls: tall, cramped, old, broken, wood- and metal-framed. The floor, if you could call it that, was untilled; a kind of damp, mushy, wet-earth type of mixture filled with bugs and the heads of writhing worms. There wasn’t even a roof, just a flat piece of grimy copper held in place by rusted nails. A door, perfectly round and green, lay behind us, and when Hannah closed it, the glaring white of direct sunlight disappeared, and a murky gold sheen took its place. Cho and I looked at each other — surely this couldn’t be it, could it?

“Wuggles,” said Hannah, “I’m home.”

“Oh goodie,” squeaked a voice. “Miss Hannah’s back! Hey boys, did you hear that? Miss Hannah’s home!”

“Miss Hannah?” asked another voice.

“Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy!” squeaked another, catatonic with excitement. “Miss Hannah’s back! Such a great day it is.”

The grimy copper plate dropped from the ceiling, flipped over three times, and fell, grimy side down, on the floor. The opposite side was burnished, closer to bronze than copper, and along the edges were trimmings of silver and sunken pockets of gold which had been hammered into the metal. Curiously though, it was no longer a sheet, but a frame, and inside this frame were steps that led into a narrow hallway lined on either side by candles that were held aloft by tiny wooden creatures whose arms looked like tree roots, and whose hair looked like leaves.

“This is a Bowtruckle sanctuary,” explained Hannah as she led us down. “The front of the house is a facade.” At that moment, one of the Bowtruckles wriggled from the ceiling and fell on her shoulder. “This is Wuggles,” she said, utterly unsurprised by his appearance. “He’s the guardian of the sanctuary. Say hello, Wuggles.”

Wuggles peeked at us over Hannah’s shoulder and shyly waved one of his root-like hands. “Hello friends of Hannah,” he squeaked.

Past the hallway was a cavernous barn of a room. While technically a cellar, it didn’t look like one. Encompassed by rich mahogany and supported by sweet-smelling cedar beams, Augurey’s Perch was a bean buried in earth. It had three lofts, a dining room, living space, and writing alcove which flowed into and away from each other, and an oculus in the ceiling. Above this oculus was a Bowtruckle metropolis, a fully-fledged city hewn into branchless tree trunks and mossy sheets of low-hanging vine.

Sitting at the dining room table was a giant man with red hair, red cheeks, and a prodigiously red beard. It was Thomas Abbott, the man I’d met at Pomona’s Pumpkin Patch. His face mottled when he saw us.

“No.”

“ _ Daddy! _ ”

Thomas’s face darkened like the cloud of an incoming storm. “I said no, Hannah. I’ll take no help from Thorne.”

“It’s not Thorne,” said Hannah. “It’s  _ Harry _ .”

“Aye,” said Thomas and he shot me a distrustful look. “For all we know she could have sent him.”

“Um, excuse me,” I said.

“She didn’t  _ send  _ him,” said Hannah. “I went there this morning to ask for help.”

“Hannah!” boomed Thomas. “I expressly asked you  _ not  _ to do a thing like that. We’re fine.”

“We need the help, daddy.” Hannah was over two feet shorter than Thomas, yet she stood toe-to-toe with him. Her breathing was labored, her freckled cheeks were flushed, and she gripped the handles of her purse like a sword. “This is too important to let pride get in the way?”

“Pride!?” Thomas looked like he’d been slapped. “You think this is about pride?” He gaped like fish, and then he exploded. “This isn’t about  _ pride _ ! It’s about  _ integrity _ . About  _ morals _ . About  _ principle _ .”

“If I could just — ” I said, but Hannah cut across me.

“But what good will all that do if we can’t share the article with the world!”

“You know what they did!” snarled Thomas and his big meaty hands curled into fists. “What  _ she  _ did! This is about — ”

“I don’t care,” said Hannah primly. “No, I really don’t, and you can glower all you like.”

Thomas’s bushy red beard bristled. “When a man draws a line in the sand — ”

Hannah reared. “Don’t you talk about what men do and don’t with me! I won’t have it, I simply won’t.”

“Hannah — ”

“Daddy — ”

“ _ Hey! _ ” I yelled, so loudly that both Hannah and Thomas turned to look at me with matching expressions of surprise. I cleared my throat. “Um… I just wanted to say that, uh, Thorne doesn’t know… I’m here. But — err — even if she did… she wouldn’t have a problem with it. That’s the kind of person she is.”

Thomas’s cheeks grew molten hot. He opened his mouth to respond, but I plowed on before he could.

“I know I can’t do much. I don’t have money or… much of anything, really, but… I have friends.” I looked over at Cho and grinned. “And they’re amazing and wicked smart. I think… this is important too, so if there’s anything I can do to help… I want to.”

Thomas was silent for a long moment. Then, he turned and stomped off into the kitchen. “We’re having pork tonight,” he called gruffly over his shoulder. “You might as well stay.”

“Well,” said Hannah after a moment. “I think that went swimmingly, don’t you?” And without another word, she walked into the kitchen to join her father.

“This family is mental,” I muttered to Cho.

She shrugged. “Most are.”

* * *

**THE ABBOTTS WERE A FAMILY UNLIKE ANY OTHER.** Hannah became a completely different person around her father. Polite, timid, and shy, she may have been, but around her father, she was a firecracker, and just as hot-headed as he was. They argued while Thomas roasted the pork (without magic), argued when Hannah cut up the vegetables (also without magic), argued about the correct arrangement of cutlery (a conversation which  _ wasn’t  _ about magic), and argued who should sit where at the dinner table.

Thomas’s wife was a  _ very  _ young witch. She had round, rosy cheeks, a forehead disrupted by acne, and dark red hair that was closer to russet than ruby. When I introduced myself, she looked up from the copy of  _ Witch Weekly  _ she was thumbing through and told me her name was Susan Bones.

When Thomas announced it was time for dinner, a small boy climbed down from the middle alcove, ran up to Hannah, and hugged her legs. He looked very unlike the Abbotts with his curly blonde hair and electric blue eyes, but Hannah introduced him as her younger brother, Dayton.

Cho stayed quiet as we ate. Her skin was hot and sweaty, mostly on account of her ridiculous knitted jumper, but also because Augurey’s Perch ran on the warm side (when I asked, Hannah explained that Bowtruckles were cold-blooded). The Abbott’s offered several times to take her jumper, but each time she refused, saying she, like the Bowtruckles, enjoyed the warmth.

I was… worried she wasn’t enjoying herself, worried that she was dragging herself along for my sake, but when I drew her aside to ask, she told me I was looking into it too much and there were just more people here than she was used to. I wasn’t sure I believed that story. Several times during the meal, she’d reach out and clench my hand tightly under the dinner table — and I mean,  _ tightly _ — merlin that girl was  _ strong _ .

Just as we started on dessert, a boy with black hair and watery eyes walked into the dining room. He looked familiar, and it took me a moment to his face in my memory. It was Theodore — Corban Yaxley’s assistant.

“Here’s the rent for this month.” Theodore placed a pouch of galleons on the table. “Harland asked me to drop it off before I left for the day.”

Thomas grunted in acknowledgement through a mouthful of pork.

“Won’t you join us for supper, Theo?” asked Hannah.

Theodore shook his head. “Sorry — my dad’s expecting me.”

Hannah’s face fell. “Oh, well, alright then. I’ll walk you out.” She made to stand up, but Thomas spoke before she could.

“No, I’ll do it. I have a few questions about our good  _ friends,  _ the Doge’s.”

Hannah watched them leave with a peculiar expression on her face. “They had a bit of a falling out,” she explained. “Daddy and the Doge’s, I mean.”

“Because of the article?” I asked.

Hannah didn’t answer, but five-year-old Dayton did. “Daddy says they’re a bunch of meanies!”

“The Doges have their Firewhisky business,” said Hannah, a bemused look on her face. “They don’t want daddy’s controversies getting in the way.”

“And Theo is…?” I trailed off.

“Their employee,” said Hannah, “thought they don’t use him much. They usually send him to help us with the paper since they’re too busy.”

Thomas didn’t look happy when he returned, and the rest of dinner was a (mostly silent) affair. When it ended, Thomas said he wanted to speak with me — his tone made me  _ quite  _ nervous — and without further ado, he led me onto the front porch with Cho and Hannah following behind.

Three spindly rocking chairs sat on the porch, the kind of chairs which were comfortable, not because of their construction, but because they’d seen use for years and years and years. When I offered the chair to Cho, she refused, and opted, instead, to sit on the ground and lean her head against my knee. When I ran my fingers through her sleek black hair, she sighed, and moved closer.

Thomas took out a box of matches and spent a while trying to light a clay pipe filled with tobacco, but a summer breeze hung low in the valley, making that task more difficult.

“Can’t you use magic for that?” I asked.

“Aye,” said Thomas, “I could.” But he didn’t. Several more matches met their end, during which time I looked out on the slumbering valley. Fireflies glowed in the night, and a sea of stars sprawled above their golden light. I had never seen so many — not even at Thorne’s house. It was another example of the quiet, patient magic that seemed to exist here, a magic that seeped from the earth itself.

A hiss drew my attention as one of the matches caught flame. Thomas made a sound of approval as he lit the end of his pipe. Smoke billowed past his bushy beard, inlaid, as it always was, with tiny yellow flowers. Thomas blew a smoke ring into a night, and one of the Auguries dived and sailed through it.

“Auguries are curious creatures,” he said. “Shy but shrewd, prophetic yet distrusted. When you hear an Augurey’s song, rain’s a-comin’ before too long.”

He blew another smoke ring, and another Augurey corkscrewed through it.

“This valley floods in the wetter months. Landslides and the like. It was quite a problem for my ancestors — caused them no end of grief. My father was the one who figured out a solution.”

“The grid?” I asked.

“Aye, the  _ perch _ ,” said Thomas proudly. “It’s made from thorn and bramble, the same matter the Auguries use for their nests. My father collected it in Ireland, piece by piece, over the course of four years. It took him three more to merge the raw materials, make the grid, and enchant it to hover about the house. Seven years — not a short amount of time.”

“No,” I agreed. “It isn’t.”

Thomas’s voice turned reverent. “The Augurey’s came soon after his work was complete — all of them. It happened so quickly you’d have thought they were waiting for him to finish… like they knew what he was building.” He chuckled and stroked the handles of his mustache. “You have to wonder if my father built the perch because he needed the Auguries, or if the valley flooded because the Auguries needed a new home.”

“That's amazing,” I mumbled.

Thomas nodded, his chin drooping down to rest atop his chest. “It makes me question the wisdom of using magic for… frivolity when it could be used for…  _ more _ .”

Hannah sighed. “Cho said whoever destroyed the press left no trace of their identity daddy.”

Thomas grunted. “It’s what we expected.” In a gruff voice, he nodded at Cho, and said, “thanks for looking into it. We’re in your debt.”

“But… what does that mean?” I asked.

“It means,” said Thomas heavily, “that it was destroyed by someone who knew how it worked, someone who spent enough time in the shop to get familiar with it, someone… we  _ know _ .”

“Do you have any ideas?”

Thomas shook his head. Smoke furled from his nose like a dragon. “None that I like. The thought that someone we know would do this… it’s unthinkable.”

“How many had access?” asked Cho.

Hannah ticked them off on her fingers. “Us… the Doge family… and Theo.”

“Is there… anything else we can do?” I asked.

“Without a printing press? No.” Thomas barked out a laugh. “Hell, even with a printing press there’d be no guarantees.”

“But at least the Wizengamot would have  _ accurate  _ information,” said Hannah. “At least their decision would be  _ informed _ . But now… it seems we’re at… a dead end.”

“The Wizengamot…” I said. “Those were the people who attended my auction, right?”

Thomas nodded. “Aye.”

Blaise’s mom was a member of the Wizengamot, wasn’t she?

“We might not be at a dead end after all,” I said. “I think… I  _ might _ know someone who can help.”

* * *

**WHEN WE GOT BACK TO THORNE’S COTTAGE,** Blaise and Daphne were in the living room — an oddity all on its own as I’d never seen Daphne make an effort to interact with anyone. But, hey, it worked in my favor.

“Blaise?”

He looked up. A confident smile broke across his face. “Harry.”

Daphne’s eyes flicked from me to Cho, and her hands tightened on the armrests of her chair. Blaise didn’t notice, but I did.

“Do you think your mum would be willing to help me with something?”

Blaise’s eyebrows rose. “My mum?”

I summarized the day’s events. “...and since it will take time to fix the printing press, I thought, uh... maybe, you know, maybe I could attack this from a different angle.” I gave Cho a sideways glance to make sure I had said everything correctly, but she wasn’t looking at me; her gaze was fixed on Daphne. 

Blaise’s smile grew strained. “Mum is... an unknown entity. Even to me. I’ll ask her, but...”

“Thanks, mate.” I tapped Cho on the shoulder. “Ready?”

We turned to leave.

“So, is the asian girl your mummy now?”

I froze. 

“I mean,” — Daphne’s voice turned mocking — “after your ten years of loneliness, it seems like you’ll latch onto anything that’ll love you.”

_ Don’t give her the satisfaction,  _ I thought.  _ Don’t let her know she gets to you. _

I took a deep breath. “Blaise?”

“...yeah?”

“You’ll let me know?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t like that girl,” said Cho once we’d reached my room.

I crossed to the dresser, and smiled when I saw the raven was still there, lying snug in the nest Hannah had conjured for him that morning.

“Is she always like that?” asked Cho.

The raven’s tiny eyes were closed. “He seems peaceful,” I said. “I was worried.”

“Is that why you’ve been so weird lately?”

Black feathers rose and fell — slow breaths, even tempo. “His breathing is more even too,” I observed.

“Harry, are you alright?”

The raven opened its eyes and stretched. “Awh,” I said with a smile, “he’s looking at me. Hey there little guy, you doing okay?”

Cho grabbed me by the shoulders and turned me around to face her. “Talk to me.”

“What do you want me to say?” I snapped. “Yes, she’s awful. Yes, she says stuff like that all the time. But it’s fine. It’s not… I don’t have… I know how to handle it.”

Cho sat down on my bed, and threaded her fingers together. “Do you want me to stay?” she asked.

_ Yes _ , I thought, but I said, “No, it’s fine.”

Cho didn’t seem convinced. “Are you sure? Because — ”

“Yes,” I said, with more force. “I don’t need... I mean, you’ve done so much already. You should go home and sleep.”

“Harry, I don’t think — ”

“Cho.” My voice rose. “Drop it, alright?”

Silence fell, and in the empty space where Cho’s words had been, Daphne’s parting jab echoed in my mind. 

_ Is she your new mummy? _

“So,” I began, wanting to fill the silence more than anything else. “When my parents died, I ended up at my Aunt and Uncle’s house. Don’t remember them much, but I have this... visceral memory of my cousin throwing a tantrum about a candy egg. It was chocolate on the outside with cream filling inside — never had one myself, but they looked pretty good.

“One day, the company who made the eggs did a promotion where one egg out of every ten thousand would be golden. When Dudley found out he made my uncle buy… hundreds of them.” I laughed a little. “ _ Hundreds _ . Eventually, he got lucky. I heard the whole thing happen. He unwrapped the egg, took a bite, and just... started crying.

“See, the reason the eggs were golden was because the cream on the inside was gold instead of white, and the wrapping paper was all fancy. The joke of the whole thing was that cream tasted the same regardless of what color it was, but by the time Dudley found his golden egg, it wasn’t about the taste at all. It was about the fact that it was different, special. You can imagine how upset he was when the egg was empty. No gold cream inside. No white cream inside. Nothing.  _ It’s not in here, _ he said.  _ Why did they lie to me? _ ”

The raven cawed softly.

“So,” I continued, “what did Dudley do? He bought a thousand more eggs. And would you believe it? He found three golden eggs all of which he threw straight in the bin. I think that first disappointment ruined it for him. He couldn’t escape that moment where his belief turned out to be... nothing but an empty promise.”

Daphne’s words echoed in my mind. 

_ Is she your new mummy? _

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” I said eventually. “Not Dudley, but the egg. It was meant to have gold cream, but it just... didn’t. It wasn’t even a normal egg. It was empty. Seems like... a cruel joke.”

A dresser, a bed. Wooden floorboards. The slanted shadow of a window pane. Dying fragments of light cast by a waning moon.

“I never blamed him,” I said. “After all, why would anyone keep an empty egg.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Beta’d by Jarizok. 


	8. Treasures Of Snow

**"STAY AWAY FROM BLAISE."**

I looked up from _1,000 Ways To Wingardium On Your Osa._ Daphne stood at the edge of the stairs, looking more haggard than usual. The bruising beneath her eyes was more purple than grey, and her hair, which was normally styled in a knee-length french braid, spiked up at odd angles like the jagged peaks of a glacier.

"Hm. No," I said, and went back to reading. After a grueling morning of practice with my rubber chicken, I had retired to read another book on theory in hopes of finally being able to perform the levitation charm. As far as Wednesdays went, this one had been pretty good, but if Daphne's presence was any sign, that was going to change.

"Don't ignore me." Her footsteps approached. "Stay away from Blaise."

With a sigh, I looked up. "We're friends."

"He's _mine_."

"Why don't you talk to him about it?"

"I'm talking to _you_ about it."

For the first time, there seemed to be... an imbalance of power in our relationship — an imbalance in my favor. I had something that Daphne wanted. She wasn't criticizing me for her pleasure; she was trying to intimidate me because she was… jealous. This pleased me quite a lot.

"So... if I ask Blaise, he'll know you're talking to me about this?" I asked.

Daphne's face tightened. "Yes."

"Great. I'll ask him tomorrow, shall I?"

I tried to get up, but Daphne shoved my chest with both hands, pushing me back down. "Don't," she said, "fuck with me."

I sighed and set my book down. "I think you should talk to Blaise about this," I said.

Daphne's eyes grew dark. "I'm not talking to him, I'm talking to you."

"And I'm saying, it's up to him."

Daphne drew her wand. "I could hurt you, _force_ you to do it."

"You won't," I said.

Daphne's lip curled. "Oh? And why's that?"

There were so many things I wanted to say. I wanted to ask Daphne if Blaise was her only friend if she was worried he'd abandon her for me. I wanted to tell her I knew she wouldn't hurt me because Thorne was the only person who gave a shit about her and that if she cursed me, she'd lose that connection forever. I wanted to say her threats were empty because at the end of the day, she had nothing but resentment and bitterness. But I didn't.

"Thorne said you couldn't hurt me with magic," I said, hoping to diffuse the situation.

Daphne laughed. "I don't need... a _spell_ to hurt you." She lunged, tangled her fingers in my hair, and ripped my head back.

 _Tug, tug, tug._ Daphne was trying to break in, to get information, to find a secret that could really hurt me.

 _Tug, tug, tug._ Was she trying? Was this the best she could do? Could it be Daphne was... bad at legilimency?

 _Tug, tug, tug._ I saw a rope, a white rope, _Daphne's_ led outward and away, a tenuous link that stretched from my mind to her's. If she attacked me, did that give me the right to attack her back?

 _Tug, tug, tug._ I wanted to pull the rope. I was curious — I couldn't help it. I wanted to see what Daphne was made of, what lay beneath her cold exterior.

 _Tug, tug, tug._ Oh, sure, why not.

I reached out and pulled.

 _Twist, turn, fold, bend_. The world dissolved.

A handsome estate cloaked in darkness with a fire smoldering in the hearth. A coat of arms lay on the wall — "TUTI CICERO," it read. A rocking chair adorned with silk lay behind a handsome mahogany desk. Green wallpaper, black carpet, boarded-up windows.

 _Tug, tug, tug,_ went the rope around my waist.I looked down. Daphne was trying to kick me out, but her efforts weren't particularly impressive. It didn't make sense. Why would Daphne attack when she didn't know how skilled I was?

A moment later, the answer dawned on me.

Daphne didn't think I was skilled at... anything. She based her conclusion on what she'd seen — _wand_ magic. She didn't see the practice I did with Fleur; she didn't know I slithered past Thorne's defenses. Daphne was so convinced of her own conclusion, of her own sense of superiority, that she never considered a situation where I might be _better_ at something than she was. In fairness, until this moment, I would have agreed with her assessment. After all, I _still_ couldn't stop Fleur or Thorne from entering my mind no matter how hard I tried. But what if...

 _What if_...

What if Thorne and Fleur were _exceptionally_ skilled? What if I was trying to draw conclusions from the wrong baseline? What if my practice partners weren't _average_ , but at the top of the bell curve? What if Daphne was the average? And based on how easy it was to defend against her, I must be...

 _Oh,_ I thought. _Oh..._

Daphne's miscalculation had cost her. Not only had she failed to enter my mind, but she'd given me complete access to her's. I could find out every secret she had — and she knew it. I could feel her tugging on the rope, desperately trying to push me out, but she couldn't because I was too skilled.

And I wasn't even trying that hard.

A new thought occurred to me, an _exciting_ thought. What if I _tried_? What if I tried to stop her from pulling the rope?

 _Tug, tug, tug,_ went the rope around my waist.

 _Oh,_ I thought. _Hello, Daphne._

I reached out and grabbed it. The rope went taught. Daphne's entire mind shuddered. For a single moment, I felt her _,_ all of her, everything she was feeling or had ever felt. It was — oh, fear, Daphne was afraid, but of what? — could it be… me?

Conflict tore through me. Why should I respect Daphne's feelings when she'd been nothing but cruel to me? Why should I exercise restraint when she'd hurt me again if given the chance? Why did I have to be the bigger person when Daphne was three years older?

" _Because you're the lure,"_ said Ron.

" _Because magic represents our boundless capacity for choice,"_ said Thorne.

Alright, fine. I _was_ imposing my will on Daphne; I was taking away her choice. She didn't want me here, and I... was holding the rope, the white rope, _Daphne's_ rope, the rope that felt icy and cold in my hands. Fear thrummed through it, turning my veins to ice, and I knew implicitly that if I followed that fear, if I followed it down, down, down into the basement where her dark creatures lay, I'd find Daphne's logic, her point of origin, her greatest secret; a secret which I'd be able to use to hurt her so greatly she'd never say anything to me again.

But I couldn't.

The resentment, the anger… I felt them, acknowledged them, and also realized they were from a different time, a different era, a time where I _wasn't_ in Daphne's mind. It was then I saw _my_ miscalculation. I didn't see Daphne the same way anymore. Not when I was in her mind. When I saw past her endless layers of frost and fuckery to the very core of her — the part of herself she kept _hidden_ from the rest of the world. Here, now, I _saw_ Daphne. I felt her fear, I _knew_ how deep it ran, and I... couldn't add to that.

Despite the fact that she was horrid; despite the fact that she'd done everything in her power to hurt me — including an attempted legilimency attack _for fuck's sake_ — I now realized her action came from this fear; that she wanted me to fear her; she needed to feel in control.

" _Doin' it with magic has always seemed like... cheatin',"_ said Ron. " _Gotta meet the fishies on an even playin' field."_

Yes, Ron was right. Daphne wasn't acting on good information. She was to blame for her ignorance, yes, but, still, I wouldn't earn her respect this way. My victory wouldn't matter if —

 _Fuck,_ I thought. _Even when I'm right, I still lose._

I closed my eyes. My fingers loosened.

 _Twist, turn, fold, bend._ The world re-materialized me.

I opened my eyes. Daphne's wand hovered right between my eyes.

In that moment, she looked very small; diminished and unfinished, engulfed by a grey button-up three sizes too big. She trembled. Her gaunt eyes were wide. "If you ever do that again" — her wand shook — "I swear to Merlin... I'll kill you myself."

I nodded, observing her carefully. "Okay."

Daphne turned tail and ran.

* * *

**"HARRY, YOU AWAKE?"**

"Blaise... is that you?"

"Sorry, mate, I know it's late."

I sat up in bed and put my glasses on. "S' alright."

Blaise stood beside my door, drenched in a canopy of ghostly shadow. Outside, beyond a tree overgrown with foliage, lay a moon more white than grey, and when its light brushed the edges of Blaise's face, his dark skin made that light luminous, as if it were a diaphanous sheet of silken silver.

"Can I come in?"

I crossed my legs, making room. "Please."

Blaise looked troubled as he sat beside me. "My mum wants to meet with you. Tomorrow morning. Nine o'clock. Here."

I released a breath I didn't know I was holding. "Thank you," I whispered. "Cho hasn't had any more time to work on the printing press and — "

Blaise held up a hand. "Hang on. I just... I need to say this."

He took a deep breath. "What you're trying to accomplish with _The Liberator_... I don't think it's worth it. You're wading into unknown waters here, mate. The Yaxleys are serious people. They're not fuckin' around. My _mum_ is a serious person. _She_ doesn't fuck around. If she wants to meet you, she wants something.

"You're a good guy, Harry, but people like my mom… people like the Yaxleys, they don't care. They have an _angle_." Blaise frowned. "You don't know anything about _The Liberator_. For that matter, you don't know anything about the Yaxleys. For all you know, the Abbotts could be lying straight to your face."

"They're not," I said.

"But how do you _know_?"

"I dunno. They're just... they're _not_."

"Harry — " began Blaise.

"It's just the way I feel."

Blaise made a frustrated sound. "How you _feel_ isn't a _fact_."

"Why do I have to act only on facts? Thorne does things because she feels like it all the time."

"That's _different_."

"How is it different? We're both gods, aren't we? Doesn't that mean we should — "

"Harry. Thorne can take care of herself."

It felt like he'd slapped me.

_Is she your new mummy?_

"You think... you think I can't take care of myself?"

Blaise shook his head. "That's not what I — "

"Because I'm too stupid to know what's going on?"

"Harry — "

"I'm not an _idiot_ , Blaise," I growled. "I'm not made of glass. I don't need protection. And despite what you and your _girlfriend_ seem to think, I don't need anyone to mother me."

Blaise blinked. "What?"

"You were there last night, Blaise. You heard what she said about… about my mum, and you didn't say — "

"I didn't know _what_ to say," said Blaise in a clipped voice.

"So, you — what — said _nothing_? You couldn't stand up to her?"

 _Just like everyone else,_ I thought bitterly.

"It's complicated."

"It's not _complicated,_ Blaise. She's your girlfriend."

"She's not my — "

"She can say whatever because, hey, feelings don't matter, only facts do."

"Stop."

"Sure hope the sex is good because — "

"Stop talking about things you don't understand," snarled Blaise in a voice so dark it stunned me into silence. "I've known you for less than _two months,_ and I've known Daphne for _six years._ You've been in the wizarding world less than _two months_ , and I've been in the wizarding world for almost _eighteen years_. When I say you should listen to me, I'm not calling you weak. I'm saying you need to shut the fuck up, because you don't _know_ enough to survive yet, and what you don't know might kill you. _"_

Blaise leaned forward, head tilted to the side. He looked unlike himself, cold and calculating, a snake rearing to strike. The moonlight strewn against his skin sharpened into a crown of molten steel. "You're a good guy, Harry, but you're stupid. I've never thought twice about what Daphne says because compared to my mum, she's nothing. And compared to the Yaxleys, she's nothing. And with what's she's going through this — "

"Not you too," I said in disgust. "That doesn't give her the right to — everything she does, it — I don't know how — I mean, look at the Abbotts!" My voice rose to a shout. "She ripped that family apart, Blaise, and Thorne just — "

"Okay, okay." Blaise held his hands up. "Peace. I surrender. I'm waving my white flag."

"Honestly, you people make me feel like I'm in an alternate universe where I'm the one who's an asshole. Honest to god, sometimes I walk around thinking that. Is there something I'm missing here? Because it seems to me that — "

"Harry," said Blaise, "I'm sorry, alright? I wasn't thinking."

"She told me to stay away from you this morning." I watched Blaise's eyes widen with savage satisfaction. "Threatened me. And when I didn't, she attacked me with legilimency."

"I didn't know she did that."

My lip curled. "Yeah, well, maybe I'm not the only one who talks about things they don't understand."

For a long moment, we glowered at each other. _Blaise can stare all he likes,_ I thought. _I won't back down._

"What's happened?" he asked.

"I stopped her."

"What, like, physically?"

"No, Blaise," I growled. "That's something _Daphne_ would do. I just... I have this thing where when someone attacks my mind, I can reverse the connection and attack them back."

"And you… did that?"

"Yeah. I overpowered her," I said and smirked. "She's pretty shit at occlumency."

Blaise leaned forward. "What did you see?"

I looked down. "Not much, I... didn't want to. It was, uh, an old sitting room. Down below I just felt... fear." I shook myself, trying to clear my head of the memory. "So much fear. I didn't — it just didn't feel like I should be there, so I left."

"Well, yeah... that's where it happened."

My temper flared. "Where. What. Happened? I'm sick of people being so bloody vague about — "

"This explanation is going to take a while if you keep jumping down my throat."

I shut my mouth and watched him expectantly.

Blaise grinned. "You look like an owl when you do that."

"Sorry I'm not as pretty as you are," I said waspishly.

Blaise was silent for a moment, deep in thought. The moonlight softened, turning from steel to silver, and when it slid down his face, the halo it created made his features gentle and round once more.

"This is what I know." Blaise took a deep breath. "When Daphne was ten, her twin brother held her entire family hostage. Shit if I know how a ten-year-old managed to do it, so don't ask me. He must have been a tough little guy, though. According to Daphne, he didn't use any magic.

"It took a week until someone noticed they were missing. My mum's second husband was Daphne's uncle, right? So, we knew their family, and eventually, he went to go check on them."

Blaise's face tightened and stretched. His eyes widened, gazing at something far away. "When he brought her home, she was... it makes me sick just thinking about it. I don't know what Daphne's brother did, and Daphne's never told anyone, but..." He trailed off and then said, "I think that's the reason me and her get along. Deep down... we're the same."

I shook my head. "You are _nothing_ like her."

The corner of Blaise's mouth twitched, not at all like his usual smile. "Sometimes I wonder. At least Daphne's honest about her fear. We're both afraid. Daphne of her brother and me of — "

The strange smile grew wider. "But you've had it worse than both of us, and yet somehow, you're not."

"What?" I asked and laughed. "I'm afraid all the time."

Blaise shook his head. "Not like us. It's not… _debilitating_. Not in the same way. You still care. You give a shit. It's why I find you so interesting. It's why Daphne hates you. It's why you're... you."

"And we're friends, right?"

I had to ask. This had been a _weird_ conversation.

"Course," said Blaise. His old smile — the handsome, confident one — returned. "I just wish I knew why this was so important to you."

"The Liberator?"

"Yeah."

"You know, I…" — I shrugged helplessly — "I don't even know. I know it sounds crazy... but I have to make sure the estuary is safe. I'm not saying I know everything, and I'm not saying" — I raised my eyebrows and grinned — "that I'm _not_ stupid, but I know what's right, and I know that _I'm_ right."

"So, uh, tomorrow is the birthday of Daphne's sister. Or it would have been if she was, you know." Blaise waved a hand vaguely. "We're gonna get pissed out of our minds. You should join us."

"Blaise, I don't — "

"You don't wanna spend time with Daphne," said Blaise.

"Uh… sort of," I said. "I don't really want to spend time with Daphne. But, also, I've never… drank before."

Blaise's eyebrows rose. "Never?"

"Never. Ever."

"Damn." Blaise ruffled my hair. "I'm gonna have to get the good shit, then. Take it from me. If _anything_ will fix your relationship with Daphne, it'll be this. Worth a try, yeah?"

"I guess…" I said.

Blaise smiled — the strange one — the one that seemed more snake than man. "Plus, if mum's five husbands were any indication, after a day with her, you'll be needing a stiff one."

* * *

**"YOU NEED A NAME."**

The raven stared at me. I stared back.

"Any ideas?" I asked.

With each day that passed, the raven looked more and more healthy. Sometimes, when he thought I wasn't looking, I'd catch him stretching his injured wing in his nest atop of my dresser. All good signs, in my book. _Yes,_ I thought. _I can do this. I can save the estuary and the raven._

"What about a noble name like Harrison?"

The raven blinked.

"Hadrian?"

Another blink.

"…Harry jr?"

A third blink.

"Fine be that way," I said waspishly. "I'll name you something really stupid. See, look out there." I pointed at a large, regal owl who was flying toward my window. "Now _that's_ a bird who wouldn't mind a name like Hadrian."

The raven blinked (far too intelligently in my opinion), and when the incoming owl landed on my windowsill, it received a look of supreme disgust and a shuffling of glossy, midnight-blue feathers. I didn't know what the raven's problem was as there was nothing common about this owl, not from what I could see, anyway.

It was jet black and spectacled by virtue of the white markings around its eyes, beak, and lower jaw. It looked excessively grumpy as if it couldn't believe _this_ was the task it had been assigned this morning. When I moved to take the letter attached to its leg, the owl watched me with large yellow eyes, waiting for something, though for what I did not know. I must have offended it somehow, because the instant I removed the letter, it hooted, gave my finger a sharp peck, and took flight out the window.

"Looks like you were right to be suspicious," I told the raven. "Ah well."

I turned my attention to the letter.

* * *

_Dearest Harry:_

_I did wish our first communication was in person, but alas, circumstances force my hand, as they so often do. What motive have I in writing to you? To be frank, I am_ _bored_ _, bored of this game —_ _everything_ _is a game, never forget — and while I find your stumbling attempts at independence amusing, I do not think it fair to keep you in the dark._

_Not when your competition is laying piece after piece to back you into corners unknown to you and Thorne and yes, even me; not when the deck is stacked so heavily against a fifteen year-old-old who, if my sources are correct (and they are), does not have a wand and still, even after two months, cannot perform a single spell; not when Dragons escape confinement and Acrumantulas savage their hosts; not when the breadcrumbs you follow lead not where you think you see them lead, but to somewhere I think you do not know._

_But how do you know you can trust_ _me_ _? How do you know_ _I_ _am not leading you astray. For that matter, how do you know I am_ _not_ _the Dark Lord, who beyond all others has the best hope of destroying you? Enjoy that uncertainty, Harry. Embrace it. That is the thrill of possibility, of magic, and while it does not have rules, I, most certainly, do, and you can expect I will always fall inside the boundaries they provide._

_Except when I don't._

_1) I am not kind, but I am fair. In all things. Big and small (_ _especially_ _small). Regardless of how they benefit me. A word of warning: I have a top-heavy sense of fairness._

_2) In every situation, I will always choose what amuses me most. A word of warning: I have a wicked sense of humor._

_3) I care little for things that do not hold my attention. A word of warning: should you prove uninteresting, it will prove quite perilous for you, and dare I say, even fatal._

_For the moment at least, you fall squarely in the safe-zone of all three rules. Therefore, you can rest easy knowing I mean you no harm. For now. Who am I, you ask? When we meet — and rest assured, we will — sooner than you think, but not as soon as I'd like — I will introduce myself fully and properly, and then, you_ _will_ _know me._

_In preparation for this joyous meeting, I have, quite graciously, arranged two presents for you. The first is tangible and fits in a box. When it's delivered, you'll thank me — eventually. The second is a warning, given freely, at no cost to you and great risk to me. Can you handle it? Are you ready?_

_Do not trust Theodore Nott._

_Until we meet, I remain,_

_TMR_

* * *

"Who the hell," I mumbled, "is TMR?"

A knock at the door announced Arabella's arrival. I set the letter down and walked down the stairs, across the entry, and with a bright smile, opened the door.

In an instant, I became acutely aware of all the things Arabella Zabini _wasn't_. Largely, I think, because understanding who she _was_ lay beyond my observational capacity. Her skin wasn't dark, wasn't chocolate, wasn't tan, but _deep_ in its coloring. Her eyes weren't beady, bulbous, or overly-blinky, but bright, luminous, and steely blue. Her clothes, especially the frilly, pearl-inlaid décolletage of her silk-stitched emerald dress, bespoke wealth, but her lips, pressed together as they were in a razor-thin too-sharp raspberry-lipstick-covered smile, belied hunger and weariness born from broken promises, distrustful dalliances, and one too many should-a-could-a-would-a's.

Her eyes flared. "What do you desire?" she asked.

I blinked. "Sorry?"

Arabella's voice could've made shit sound like Shakespeare. It didn't shake, drawl, or falter. Nor was it cold. Nor was it passionate. Nor was it affected in any other way. It was real and earthy, with a bit a' dirt that scraped a little. But only a little.

"What do you desire?" she asked again.

"Uh, I don't — "

Arabella took an imposing step into Thorne's cottage. I took a step back. Her presence filled the whole house.

"This is not a social call, Mister Potter. There will be no chit chat, small talk, or idle conversation. There are no waters to test, truths to review, or stories to scrutinize. I will not explain, elucidate, or make any attempts to demystify myself. _To_ you. My assistance is valuable, worthwhile, and advantageous. _For_ you."

There it was again. That smile.

"This is one thing and one thing only," she said. "An appraisal, a transaction, a business… coupling. Desire. Price. Transaction. Now, I will ask again, and if you do not answer, I will leave. What do you desire?"

Arabella took a step forward. I stepped back.

"Uh… the estuary. They, uh, the Yaxleys… uh…"

"Yes?"

"Pumpkins… and the Wizengamot… and you…"

Arabella took a step forward. I stepped back.

"Come, come, Mister Potter. Surely you can be more articulate than that. Surely there's something darker, deeper you desire."

"No. I mean, yes. I mean — it's just that I know you're in the Wizengamot, so I was wondering if there were any avenues to stopping…"

Arabella prowled forward.

"The…"

I stepped back.

"Vote," I squeaked.

My back hit a wall.

"Uhm… because, well, we don't know what the pumpkins will do to the estuary, and we want to make sure things stay in — "

"December 13th."

It took me a minute to realize December was a month that existed. "What?"

"An art auction," said Arabella. "In France. Your attendance for my assistance."

"I mean, I'd have to ask Thorne, but — "

Her gaze sharpened. "You have five seconds to decide."

"Wait, but — "

"Four."

"Will you guarantee you can stop the vote?" I asked, my words tumbling out in a rush.

" _Do not say yes,"_ said Fleur in my mind.

" _Oh, so now you decide to answer."_

" _I'm sorry, there were things I needed to do and — "_

"Three," said Arabella.

" _The art auction isn't — "_ began Fleur.

" _This is important to me,"_ I hissed.

" _Can't you just — "_

"Two."

" _I promise I'll explain why, but for now — "_

" _No,"_ I said mulishly. _"I have to prove I can do this."_

" _Harry — "_

"One."

"Alright!" I said, much too loudly. "Fine. I'll go to your auction."

Arabella leaned back, face smooth as stone. "I have arranged a meeting at four o'clock between yourself and Lucius Malfoy, editor of the _Daily Prophet_."

"Err… thanks," I said. "But isn't the Wizengamot — "

"Desire. Price. Transaction," said Arabella briskly. "Awareness increases price, visibility lowers desire. No desire, no transaction. Good day, Mister Potter."

"But — "

"Good day."

Without another word, Arabella swept from the house and closed the door behind her with a soft click. For several long moments, I stared at the spot she'd vacated, wondering what the hell just happened.

I had never felt turned on and afraid at the same time before. It was… unsettling.

" _Harry — "_

" _Don't start,"_ I snapped, feeling beyond embarrassed by my stuttering performance. _"You don't get to disappear and then order me around."_

" _I'm sorry, but — "_

I blew a very loud raspberry at Fleur and ignored her.

"Hm," said a thoughtful voice from the bottom step. "With your mouth hanging open like that, you kinda look like mum's fourth husband."

Heat flooded my cheeks. "Shut up."

"Don't beat yourself up," said Blaise as he walked over to me. "She's a pro. You did the best you could. Good on ya, better luck next time."

"Have I ever told you I hate you?" I asked as we walked toward the door, the forest, and Ron.

"I did warn you," said Blaise with a carefree shrug. "They don't call her _Venus-Flytrap-Zabini_ for nothing."

"Do they, really?" I asked.

"No," said Blaise with a laugh. "Could you imagine?"

* * *

 **THE DAILY PROPHET HAD AN AIR OF QUIET SIGNIFICANCE** , a place where people had very important thoughts (and you'd best not interrupt). It was rectangular, wide but not narrow, and each of its three stories were graded so that the second level protruded over the ground floor, and the third level protruded past the second and over the first. As a consequence, it had no balcony, where the second floor did. A zigzagging elevator-like system made these upper floors accessible. Massive man-sized bird cages crawled at a 45-degree angle along glimmering silver chains that disappeared into the third floor and originated from a spot near the fireplace where I was standing.

A curved reception desk stood in the center of the foyer, made of the same veiny blue-and-white marble as the floors, walls, Doric columns, and slanted ceiling. In the center of this island sat a man with a newspaper draped across his face. When I stepped forward to sign in at a clipboard strewn casually (but not carelessly) across the desk, I heard him snoring.

The newspaper on his face had a moving black-and-white picture of a dragon, and the headline was titled, "HUNGARIAN HORNTAIL ESCAPES CONFINEMENT FLUMMOXING EXPERTS." I nodded in agreement. If a dragon escaped, I'd probably be flummoxed too.

 _Looks like TMR was telling the truth about that,_ I thought.

"Um, excuse me."

The man didn't stir. I raised my hand to ring a golden bell lying next to the clipboard, but before I could, I was elbowed out of the way by a wizard with hair the color of fake gold, and teeth too white to be real.

The newcomer draped himself across the desk — elbows and chest, hell, he just _sprawled_ on top — and gave the bell a good tap. "A ring a ding ding, darling," he said. "It's Gilderoy."

A few of the wizards who were sitting in a sectioned-off seating area to the left of the counter shifted in their chairs and gave Gilderoy dirty looks that suggested, in no uncertain terms, that he should get his comportment under control forthwith.

"Um, excuse me," I said. "I was here first."

"You didn't ring the bell, darling," said Gilderoy without looking at me. "No tap, no save." He rang the bell three more times.

"I was about to," I said.

"Quiet now, luv, adults are talking." Gilderoy flashed a pearly smile. "Wakie wakie Ludlow." He bumped me with his hip again, and I stumbled back into —

"Harry?"

I turned. Curly black hair, serious eyebrows, two different colored eyes. "Clive?"

"What are you doing here?" He was grinning big and wide, not a care in the world.

"I have a meeting with Lucius Malfoy at four. But that ponce" — I jerked my head at Lockhart who was still trying to wake Ludlow — "took my spot in line."

"Did you sign in?"

"Yeah, but I didn't ring the bell."

"So?"

"He said: no tap, no save."

"What? That's not… oh." Clive rolled his eyes. "Gilderoy is such a wet scone sometimes. He writes an advice column called ' _THE ME INSIDE OF YOU'._ "

"That's creepy," I said.

A mischievous smile lit the edges of Clive's face. "Wanna see him lose his goddamn mind?"

I nodded, watching with amusement as Clive snuck up behind Gilderoy. "S'cuse me sir," he said in a voice high-pitched and bouncy. "Are you Lilderoy Gockhart?"

Gilderoy spun around. "Well, I never," he said. His next words were said with such veracity, it made his overly styled hair jiggle like jello. "I most certainly am not!"

"I'm an aspiring writer, you see," said Clive, "an' my da' says your Centaur testicle extract makes 'im look fifteen years younger! It must be wrist-breakin' work gettin' all a' it. After all, them Centaurs won't let just _anyone_ milk them."

"You must have me, confused darling," said Gilderoy dismissively.

And then, just as he turned away, Clive's voice boomed across the quiet shop. "It can't be Lilderoy Gockhart!"

"Lilderoy Gockhart?" asked a voice from the seated area.

"Not _the_ Lilderoy Gockhart!?" cried a voice from the second-floor balcony.

"Here, in Britain!" shouted Ludlow, the sleeping receptionist who slept no longer. "Who'd've thought it!"

Suddenly, Gilderoy was in the midst of a great throng of wizards who were all clamoring, shouting, and cheering. I heard him stammering assurances that he _wasn't_ Lilderoy Gockhart, but his words fell on deaf ears. His golden hair dipped beneath a mass of raised hands, and much to my amusement didn't come back up again.

"Come on," said Clive with a snigger. "My dad's meeting with Lucius now. I'll take you up."

"Thanks," I said with a smile. "You saved me again."

"We keep running into each other. Feels like fate."

"Lucky us."

"By the way," said Clive as we boarded one of the birdcages. "Can I… show you something after your meeting is finished. I thought you might want to see the Liberator's shop since you're doing so much to save it."

I'd never thought of that until now. "Yeah," I said. "That'd be great, actually."

Clive's smile lit up his entire face. "Great. See you later, then."

* * *

 **LUCIUS MET ME IN FRONT OF A LONG GLASS WALL,** beyond which lay row upon row of whatchamacallits. They whirred and buzzed, spewing freshly printed papers into one of the three, round openings in the opposite wall.

"A contract." Lucius handed me a piece of parchment. Cramped, yet elegant, handwriting covered both sides, and on the back was a glowing line marked by a rudimentary 'x'.

"Err… what does it say?" I asked, feeling a little overwhelmed at how small the writing was.

"It promises a sum of eight galleons in exchange for an article, written by _you_ , which we will publish."

"The estuary," I said.

"Correct," agreed Lucius.

"But I didn't write the article."

Lucius smiled, and it wasn't at all pleasant. "If people believe you did, the truth hardly matters."

"The Abbotts — "

"Destroyed any and all credibility they had when they attacked not only a highly respected family but the integrity of the Wizengamot."

"So… what difference will it make if I do it?"

Lucius's eyes flickered like the embers of a smoldering fire. "Journalism is not concerned with _finding_ truth. Its job is to convince people of what _is_. The more credible the source, the more credible the information."

"But I'm not a credible source," I said.

Lucius laughed at that, a rich, warm sound. "Funny," he said.

"I'm not joking," I said, but Lucius's cold eyes continue to glint, as if I were merely being coy — it pissed me off. "What do you get of this, anyway?" I asked, a little more roughly than was strictly polite.

"What any editor wants." Lucius toasted me with an invisible glass. "Circulation."

Something about that statement seemed off to me.

"You're a member of the Wizengamot, right sir?" I asked.

Lucius inclined his head. "Naturally."

"So… it wouldn't make sense for you to publish this article if you were planning on voting for the bill."

That wiped Lucius's face clean of humor. "A great number of factors influence how the Wizengamot votes."

"But you're the leader of the majority," I said and then added a hasty, "sir," so I wouldn't appear rude. "You said that during my auction, didn't you, Mister Malfoy? So why go to all these lengths to hide you…" I trailed off, the answer dawning on me. "Ah," I said, "I see. The majority is changing, but… if it's not the Dark Lord, then who…?"

"The Wizengamot votes on Monday, Mister Potter." Lucius turned and, with our meeting now over, walked down the hall. "I await your owl."

* * *

 **IN KNOCKTURN ALLEY THERE WAS AN EMPTY FOOTPRINT,** the footprint of a building that _was._ A wall here and there; dust and silence; splintered weather-worn floorboards and the obelisks of ice which sprung from them; low hanging mist that ghosted from those obelisks; the dilapidated outline of what had once been a second story and roof; a perfectly preserved wooden sign hanging obliquely from a gleaming copper chain — "THE LIBERATOR," it read with golden lettering untouched by time, the only item in the store that was — it felt like gallows humor.

"Not pretty, is it," said Clive.

I shook my head. "What… happened?"

"It's intricate, right?" Clive walked toward a wall, the only one still standing, and beckoned me over, pointing at a flaring pattern of pink and blue on the charred wallpaper. Pale light emanated it from it, bleak and dim, like the imprint of stained glass on fresh snow. "The patterns of frost. See?"

The temperature plummeted when I stepped into the store. My breath whooshed out visibly, disrupting the stale stillness of the shop.

"What sort of spell could have done this?"

"The Ice Fortress," said Clive. "It's, uh, something of a specialty of the Dark Lord's apprentice. Quite a difficult spell to pull off from what I've heard."

"But Hannah and Thomas said they didn't know who destroyed the shop."

Clive shook his head. "They were referring to the _how_ , not the _who_. Someone told the Dark Lord's apprentice where to go. Someone let him into the shop. That's the important part. If we find the traitor, we find the Dark Lord's apprentice." Clive shivered so violently it passed through him to me. "I thought you might be interested to know because…" — he sighed, and a plume of anxious air escaped — "because the Dark Lord's apprentice is Daphne's twin brother."

The spell Daphne was trying to perfect the day she attacked me in Thorne's backyard. She was trying to perfect her brother's spell. How long did say she'd been trying? Seven years?

"Why are you telling me this?" I asked.

Clive's voice was brittle, cracking like frost. "Me and Daphne don't talk much anymore, for obvious reasons, but I still... think about her. A lot. And if there's something I can do to find the person who hurt her..." He fished in his pocket and pulled out a vial of perfectly clear liquid. "Then I'm going to do it."

"What's that?" I asked.

"Veritaserum," explained Clive. "Truth potion. Ultimate truth. We use it sometimes for interviews where we want to make sure our subject is telling the truth. With their consent, of course. That's what I came here to get today."

"So, when someone drinks that…"

"They can't lie. And when we find out who betrayed us" — Clive lifted the class and peered at me through the transparent solution — "I'm going to find Daphne's brother, and then take him to Daphne."

"You still care about her, don't you?" I whispered.

Clive looked down and messed with his hair. "I know, it's crazy," he said. "After all, what I did to Hannah was" — he winced — "unforgivable, and I'll spend the rest of my life trying to make up for that." His voice softened, becoming taciturn, more introspective. "Maybe I'm selfish," he whispered, "but… I can't get Daphne out of my head."

He looked up with blue-and-green eyes right into mine. "Maybe it's just one of those things, you know? I know you guys don't get along, so I thought, maybe, if you saw what she's up against, then maybe…"

The rebellious part of me, the part of me that was still _angry_ , flared. "I don't know why I have to be the one to make the effort," I hissed, my voice brittle and thin in the afternoon air. "After everything she's done, shouldn't — "

"Yeah," said Clive quietly, "she should. But I guess… what I'm trying to say is…" — he sighed, and another cloud of hot air burst forth — "Look at the color pattern. Blue at the edges and pink in the middle." He reached out and ghosted his fingers over the pattern. "The blue is frost, no brainer right there. But the pink is something very different. Do you recognize the color from anywhere?"

"Don't think so," I said.

"Someone's face, maybe?" asked Clive.

"Oh," I whispered. "Shit. Daphne's face…"

"The Ice Fortress is an interesting spell," said Clive, "because it's so cold it burns everything it touches."

"What does that mean?"

Clive looked around at the expansive ruins all around us. "It means," he said quietly, "that the spell that wrecked this entire store, hit Daphne at full force.

* * *

 **WHEN I STEPPED OUT OF THE FIREPLACE LATER THAT EVENING,** Blaise and Daphne were already drinking in the living room. They reclined in chaise lounge chairs, drinking Ogden's Old Firewhiskey directly from the bottle. It was very bourgeoisie in a _"teenagers who know nothing"_ kind of way.

"Oh, good," said Blaise when he saw me. "Harold! Come sit with us."

"Harold?" Daphne sounded perplexed. "That's not your name, is it?"

"Course it isn't. It's Hadrian."

Daphne's mouth dropped open, and then she burst out laughing. "Hadrian!" she howled. "Who would do that to a child? Oooh — wait — what about… Harri… Hardi…" — she frowned, thinking hard — "Harrididrian."

They were sloshed out of their minds.

"Nooo," said Blaise with a shake of his head. "Too many syllables." He turned and jumped as if he were seeing me for the first time. "Ah, Harvey," he said. "Have a drink." He held the bottle out.

"Is it strong?" I asked as I walked over.

"No…" said Daphne as Blaise nodded vigorously.

I sniffed it and coughed when the smell went up my nose. It had a woody aroma with a cloying medicinal quality — I wasn't expecting it. "I dunno," I said. "This smells, uh — "

"Hey!" said Daphne loudly. I turned and saw she was holding up four fingers. "There are only two kinds of people in this world," she said. "Those who go forward, and those who are hippogriffs. Which one… are you?"

"Sip," said Blaise.

"Sip," said Daphne.

Then, they chanted, "Sip! Sip! Sip! Sip!"

I took a tiny sip and spluttered. The liquid burned all the way down my throat and became pleasantly molten when it settled in my stomach.

"Yes," roared Blaise. "Now it's a party."

* * *

T **WO HOURS LATER, I WAS STRAIGHT PISSED,** and the three of us were sitting side-by-side before the fire.

"Okay," said Blaise. "Let's go around in a circle."

"But we're sitting in a line," I said.

"Shhh" — Blaise held a finger to his lips — "don't pull that logic crap with me. We're gonna play a game. A truth game."

Daphne started. "Oooooh," she said with a big dopey grin. "Hang on." She sprinted up the stairs. I heard her stumbling around, bumping into things, and apologizing to the items she bumped into. When she came back down, she had a small object in her hand roughly the size of a spinning top.

"Oh good," said Blaise. "Then we'll know for sure."

Daphne sat on the ground behind us. We turned to face her. The warmth of the fire felt _amazing_ against my back. It was then I saw what was in her hand — a truth-seeker.

"See?" I said. "Now we're in a circle."

"Oh," said Blaise with a look of dawning comprehension. "We were in a line before, weren't we?"

"That's what I was trying to tell you!"

"Huh. Go figure."

"Okay," said Daphne. She took a swig from the half-empty bottle before continuing. "Me, Blaise, and then Harry. When one of us doesn't answer, we'll reverse."

"And we drink."

"Noooo," said Daphne with cheeks that looked rosier than I'd ever seen them. There was nothing gaunt about her now. "We drink _anyway._ "

"Merlin," exclaimed Blaise. "You're a genius. Why didn't I think of that?"

Daphne tried to spin the truth-seeker for several minutes with limited success. The sleeves of her grey button-up — three sizes too large and wrinkled from continuous use — kept getting in the way as they weren't rolled up.

"There we go," said Daphne when she finally managed to spin the truth-seeker.

"Now that's talent," said Blaise.

Daphne turned to him, and with a _very_ syrupy giggle, said, "Blaise. Why do you drink your potion?"

"Noooo." Blaise shook his head. "Won't answer that."

Daphne didn't seem surprised at all. "Oh well," she said and turned to face me.

Immediately, her dopey grin and rosy cheeks disappeared, leaving nothing but a familiar gaunt shrewdness in its wake. In an instant, I realized everything she'd said and done since I arrived had been an act designed to lure me into a false sense of security — to draw me in so she could attack at this exact moment. I looked at Blaise and saw he was watching us with that serpentine smile, a smile I now realized resembled his mother's.

We had reached a tipping point, me and Daphne. I knew it. Blaise knew it. Daphne knew it. Hell, even _Clive_ knew it. We couldn't continue butting heads, smashing against each other like waves against a cliff. One of us, our philosophies, had to win out. Blaise and Daphne _thought_ our final game was about to begin, but they'd forgotten something important, they'd overlooked one crucial detail.

I. Was. Drunk. As. _Fuck_.

"Guess I get to ask you a question now," said Daphne.

"Wait," I said. "I'm not ready yet."

A feeling of wild recklessness swept over me — the kind of reckless that only comes from being drunk _and_ threatened at the same time. Without pausing to consider the consequences, I took the Firewhiskey bottle from Daphne, and with its contents still half-full, downed it in three large gulps.

It felt like I'd been kicked in the balls.

I shut my eyes — fire raced through my veins, flooding my cheeks with color — all the blood in my body rushed to my face — the room spun dizzyingly — every nerve in my body tingled — my heart gave three painful throbs — the fire at my back became an inferno — the rope in my mind bucked like a wriggling worm — each breath I took felt too cold, scorching my lungs — the world grew dim —

Something grabbed hold of me, of my mind, of the rope, and held it still. No, wait, it went past _holding_ the rope. It sunk into it, became one with it. Familiar warmth flooded through me, grappling with the fire like I grappled with Daphne. Unfortunately for the fire, it didn't stand a chance. Warmth smashed against it, trundled through it, snuffing out the flames as if they were only flickering embers, and as awareness returned to me, I heard a familiar voice coming _from_ the rope.

" _You are an idiot,"_ it said grumpily.

I giggled, so drunk I might have been a hippogriff. _"Thanks, Fleur,"_ I whispered.

The rope gave a wiggle of acknowledgment and I could think again. Fleur was holding me, my entire mind, together — just like she always did. I drew in a great shuddering breath and opened my eyes. Blaise and Daphne were staring at me with wide eyes.

"That," said Blaise, "should have made you pass out."

"Guess I'm made of stronger stuff than most," I said lightly. My eyes flickered to Daphne's. "Ask."

 _Spin, spin, spin,_ went the truth-seeker on the ground.

"Do you think you're better than me?" The question was harsh, but the voice attached to it wasn't.

"Yes," I said.

 _Spin, spin, spin,_ went the truth-seeker on the ground.

"Why?"

"Because you think vulnerability is a weakness. And sometimes" — I hesitated, but the rope grew warm, urging me onward — "sometimes you almost convince me that you're right." I took a deep breath. "But you're not."

At that moment, I realized I was going to win the game, not because I was stronger than Daphne, but because I couldn't live in a world where she was right. I was going to win and there was nothing she could do to stop me.

"Why?" asked Daphne.

"Because you're not allowed to be a Hippogriff anymore," I said, and with the gentlest of touches, brushed my fingers against her cheek. The charm Daphne used to hide her burns fell and withered, never to be used again — I knew it like I knew the sun would rise and set. It was permanent and unchangeable. Daphne would never be able to hide behind that armor again. From the look on her face, I could tell she knew it too.

"It's gone," she whispered.

"Ha ha," I said. "I win."

Fleur released her hold on my mind, and when she did, the full weight of my drunkenness collapsed on me. I giggled, as drunk as a hippogriff.

"Guess we'll need to open another bottle," said Blaise.

Daphne looked at him sideways. "Make it two."

* * *

 **I DON'T KNOW HOW LONG THEY KEPT ME UP,** but it was late enough that being drunk stopped being fun and started being exhausting. There were tons of questions — Daphne was real curious about a whole bunch of stuff. The orphanage where I'd grown up; my favorite kinds of food; what a "fellytone" was; why I waited so long to tell them I could perform magic (I couldn't, but I wasn't about to say that); how I'd managed to drink half a bottle of Firewhisky without puking my guts out… it was endless.

It might have been flattering, were it not for the fact I knew Daphne was interrogating me, not because she was interested in getting to know me, but because she wanted to find any excuse to invalidate my victory. _Good luck,_ I thought smugly.

Blaise fell asleep around one o'clock. It was a drunken sleep, with violent snoring and drool — so much drool. It was thoroughly unattractive, a plus in my book. It was nice to know Blaise could beunattractive.

"Okay, I have another question?"

"For heaven's sake," I said. "It's — "

"Harry — "

"You know what, no, it's my turn now. I've answered all your questions."

"But — "

"Won't say nothing till I get my way. One question — no wait, I changed my mind. Two."

"One," said Daphne.

"Three," I countered.

"Two."

"Alright," I agreed. "Two questions. And if you lie, I get a million."

 _Spin, spin, spin,_ went the truth-seeker on the floor.

"What happened between you and Clive?"

Daphne shook her head. "Ask something else."

"But you said — "

Her hand darted out to grab my knee. " _Anything_ else."

Maybe it was the look in gaunt grey eyes; maybe it was the hollowness of her cheeks; maybe it was the way she shrunk into her three-sizes-too-big button-up; maybe it was a combination of all those things. Regardless of the reason, I relented and asked something else instead.

"You wear that shirt every day," I said. "Why?"

From the look on Daphne's face, I knew she would've rather answered the question about Clive, but to her credit, she answered. "My dad was wearing it when he…" she trailed off. "Each year I remember less and less no matter how hard I try. It's like… magic… wants me to forget them. But I can't. I won't. If I do, I'll…" she fell silent.

 _Spin, spin, spin,_ went the truth-seeker on the floor.

"It's your sister's birthday tomorrow, right?"

"I'm going to visit her. I always do. Thorne usually comes but…"

"I'll come."

Daphne's lip curled. "Why would you do that? You _hate_ me, remember?"

Another game — another test. But it was different now that I'd won. We weren't _dueling;_ she was nipping at my ankles.

"I don't want to hate you," I said.

When Daphne spoke, it was so quiet I barely heard her words. "I want you to."

 _Spin, spin, spin,_ went the truth-seeker on the floor.

"Tell you what," I said. "If you can put the charm back on your face, I won't."

A pause, a silence.

"Guess you're coming with."

"Yeah. Guess I am."

* * *

_Ending Notes:_

[1] Beta'd by Jarizok.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Beta'd by Jarizok


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